Soul Storm
by zoey traner
Summary: COMPLETE. Hogan struggles to recover from a mission that ended in tragedy. Please read and review. Thanks!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**Soul Storm**

"Couldn't we ask London to postpone, sir?"

Colonel Robert Hogan drew his black turtleneck sweater over his head, raked his hair into place and turned from his locker to face his men.

"Their orders were very specific, Carter. Rendezvous with Orion, bring him back here and keep him safe until the sub arrives to pick him up. Even if I wanted to postpone – which I don't - there's no way to contact him. He's already on the move and his orders are to maintain radio silence."

Taking his weapon from the top shelf of his locker, Hogan opened the box of ammunition that sat next to it and lifted a bullet out. His brown eyes flicked from Carter back to his gun as he slid the bullet into the chamber. His gaze returned to Carter and deftly, without looking, he reached up and plucked another bullet from the box.

"The mission's a simple retrieval. Why postpone?"

"The orders didn't specify **you** had to rendezvous with Orion," Kinch countered, holding steady when Hogan's hawk-like gaze settled upon him. "Any one of us could go."

Newkirk's hand shot into the air.

"I volunteer to go get him, Colonel. It's been awhile since I had a nice night for a turn about the woods. Get the rainy, cold ones, usually."

"Let him, go, mon colonel," LeBeau cajoled. "It will be much quieter around here."

Newkirk's face took on a pinched look. "The rendezvous coordinates . . . they aren't anywhere near that bloody river, are they?"

LeBeau, lips pressed into a tight line, back-handed him on the arm.

Hogan slid the last bullet home in the chamber with an audible 'click'. "It's been two weeks since I've been outside the fences. I need some freedom for a few hours or I'm going to go stir crazy."

The rare admission brought a moment of silence. Hogan's eyes passed over their shocked expressions, a slightly sheepish smile touching his lips as he shrugged.

Carter threw off his shock first. "We sure wouldn't want that to happen, sir, but you'll come right back, right? No detours . . . or . . . or anything?" he finished weakly, realizing from his friends' unhappy expressions he might have gone too far in his questioning.

Hogan rolled the chamber, palmed it shut and slipped the weapon into the well-oiled holster at his hip. Folding his arms, he considered them for a moment.

"What's going on?"

Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter snuck sideways glances at each other, but no one appeared eager to answer. Hogan's eyes glinted and his head canted to one side. LeBeau swiveled his size eight boot until it lay directly atop of Kinch's size thirteen. Hogan's gaze shifted to Kinch.

"Looks like you've been elected."

Kinch held an internal debate, and then sending a glance of apology in Carter's direction, said, "We might as well tell you, sir."

"Kinch!" Carter's exclamation held a wealth of disappointment. Kinch shrugged.

"Sorry, Carter. Guess we blew it."

Hogan's oil-blackened features tightened. "Blew what?"

Startled looks passed between Kinch, Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk. Kinch's dark eyes searched Hogan's face.

"Don't you know what day it is, Colonel?"

"Thursday, the fifteenth."

"No, sir!" Carter chuckled along with the others. Hogan's eyebrows arched and Carter verbally backpedaled. "It is, yeah, but--"

"Today's your birthday, Guv'nor!" Newkirk interrupted, throwing Carter a mildly exasperated look.

Hogan blinked. "It is?" His gaze traveled to the dog-eared calendar tacked to the wall beside his locker.

Kinch chuckled. "Yes, sir. It is."

Hogan turned back to them with another shrug. "Just another day."

"But it isn't," Carter said in a rush. "Everybody should have a birthday party and boy, do we have a great one planned for you. There's – MMPH!"

Keeping his hand clamped over Carter's mouth, Newkirk leaned close and scolded into his ear, "Just 'cause he knows there's a party, doesn't mean we have to spoil all the surprise out of it, Andrew!"

"C'est vrai!" LeBeau huffed, glaring at Carter.

Carter's eyes grew impossibly wide and slowly rolled back to Hogan, who was smiling like a Cheshire cat with a bellyful of cream. With a short breath of laughter, he reached out and pulled Newkirk's hand from Carter's mouth.

"I'm looking forward to it, Carter." Hogan clapped him on the shoulder, smiled into the bright blue eyes. Hope crept into Carter's expression.

"So you'll hurry back?"

"I promise to do my best." Pivoting, Hogan returned to his locker, took down the box of ammunition and tucked the lid shut. He suddenly went still and his eyes fastened, unblinking, upon the innocuous little cardboard box in his hand. Behind his back, his men glanced at each other, uneasy.

Kinch tentatively moved closer and lowered his voice. "Colonel?"

Hogan's gaze sliced toward him and Kinch suddenly felt as if he'd fallen through ice into frigid water. The brown eyes were incredibly empty of life, as if Hogan's very spirit had died. And then he blinked and warmth flooded the brown depths again. Wondering if he had imagined the whole thing, Kinch watched Hogan put the box in his pocket and turn toward the doorway. Just before entering the tunnel, Hogan paused and looked back at them, a touch of mischief pulling his mouth into a lop-sided smile.

"Don't start the party without me."

Carter grinned. "Not without the guest of honor! It'll be great, Colonel! One of your best birthday's ever! Just wait and see!"

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Orion was late.

Hogan turned in place, so keyed up his skin felt several sizes too small. Adrenaline buzzed like electricity along his nerves, priming him for fight or flight. The reaction puzzled him, but he knew better than to ignore it.

_It's a simple pick-up_, Hogan reminded himself, completing another slow turn. No Orion. Only trees, scrub and the small, dry creek bed he stood in.

The adrenaline snapped and popped. He silently lifted his gun free of its holster, his eyes boring into the darkness.

Sensing someone coming, he turned and ran for cover behind a tree. A moment later, a stocky man of medium height rushed out of the trees and stopped in the middle of the creek bed, breathing fast. Hogan moved into the open, startling the man badly.

"Orion?" Hogan whispered, cautiously approaching him. He stopped a few yards away, leaving a comfortable cushion of distance between them

Relief flashed over the square face. "Yes." Orion threw a glance over his shoulder. "I think I lost--"

A shot sounded. Orion jerked, his eyes flying wide in surprise, and collapsed without a sound. Hogan lunged for the protection of the trees; but a second shot rang out, slamming into him, spinning him off his feet. He went with the momentum, letting it roll him along the ground, away from the three Wehrmacht soldiers spilling out of the trees. Stopping, he brought his gun around and fired, taking one down with a bullet to the throat. And then he was rolling again, trying to buy time. Another shot cracked through the air, tearing a trail of fire across his ribcage, stealing his breath. He whipped his gun up again, two bullets catching another soldier in the chest. The last German dodged, snapping off a shot that scorched the tip of Hogan's ear. Gasping for air, Hogan rolled once and fired, sending a bullet into the man's heart, stopping it forever.

Gray cloth flashed at the edge of Hogan's vision. He twisted, snapped his arm around and pulled off a shot, hearing another body fall in the trees. He waited, arm outstretched, finger tight on the trigger, ready to fire should anyone else come at him. No one did and he let his arm drop.

It seemed to take forever to stand. Trembling in the firefight's aftermath, he paused, taking stock of the damage done by the Germans' bullets. He still had two ears, but one was dripping blood at an alarming rate. His chest and ribs were ablaze with pain; his sweater and jacket already sodden with blood from his wounds.

He staggered past the German's scattered bodies to Orion, already knowing what he would find.

The agent was dead from a bullet to the back. His wide eyes stared up at Hogan, frozen in that moment of surprise. Hogan gently closed them, then cautiously approached the place where he had heard the fourth person fall. He easily found the body sprawled face down in death, but paused over it, surprised by its size. For several seconds, he stared down at the small, slender form dressed in a worn, vaguely familiar gray coat, trying to make sense out of what he was seeing. And then the truth hit him with the force and agony of another bullet. He sank to his knees, his mind screaming in denial.

_What have I done?  
_

Against all the training drilled into him from his first day at West Point, against every command instinct ever born within him, Hogan opened his hand and let his gun fall to the ground, unable to bear its touch any longer.

_What have I done? Holy Mother . . . _

_**What** **have I done**?_

* * *

_My thanks to Linda for giving this chapter a quick once-over. _ _To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Have we got everything?"

"Yes, Carter, for the ever-bleeding last time we have everything." Newkirk rested his hands atop Carter's shoulders and smiled into the worried blue eyes. "Relax, mate. The Guv'nor's going to love it all."

Carter glanced around, taking in their party decorations. The biggest room in their tunnel system was alive with color – from the streamers hanging in gaily arranged twists to the balloons Olsen had had his mother send from Passaic, to Klink's 'borrowed' best linen and china. The kommandant's brightly polished silver candlesticks sat on either side of LeBeau's beautiful, two-layer chocolate cake, generously coated in swirls of chocolate icing and festooned with candles – not enough to accurately depict Hogan's age, but enough to provide a beautiful glow when lit.

Carter looked back at Newkirk and smiled.

"This'll be the best party ever."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Why were you out here?" Hogan whispered, barely able to see through tears. His shaking fingers tenderly brushed across her cheek, pushed back the glossy fall of hair and stopped mid-motion. The damning evidence of his marksmanship stood out clearly amongst the silken tresses.

The bullet had entered her temple, leaving a perfectly round, nearly bloodless hole. Hogan buried his wet face in his hands and rocked forward, folding over her, shaking harder with his grief.

Several months ago, he had stopped by the Metzger farmstead on a whim and discovered Romie and Josef were taking care of a little girl while her parents recovered from an illness. A friendly, beautiful, seven year-old prone to contagious fits of giggles, Marta had immediately captured Hogan's heart. He had taught her how to make an origami swan. She had proudly introduced him to her new puppy.

A warm weight settled against his thigh. Marta's little dog, a black and white mongrel with ears too big for its sleek head, looked back at him with liquid, brown eyes and whimpered. He sought to remember its name, but his mind – awash with grief, guilt and shock - refused to provide it.

"Did you run away? Is that why she was out here? Was she looking for you?"

It was the only thing that made sense. Marta had loved the dog, rarely letting it out of her sight during Hogan's visit. She had told him that the puppy was a gift from her father, to replace another that had wandered too far from home one night and never returned.

Hogan gazed down at Marta's still face, seeing it all in his mind. Marta, frantic at being unable to find her beloved pet, had probably begged her parents for permission to search for it. And they, tucking her into bed for the night, promising to search come morning.

"You snuck out," he concluded in a broken whisper. "They probably don't even know you're gone."

Head low to the ground, tail tucked tightly beneath it, the puppy left the comfort of Hogan's leg and slid on its belly toward Marta's body. Whimpering pitifully, it nosed and licked her cheek. Something in Hogan broke at the sight and he threw back his head, loosing a low moan that built and rose above the trees - the sound of a heart breaking and a man in unbearable pain.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch shook his head, unable to hold back a fond smile. Carter was acting like a kid waiting to open presents on Christmas morning. Only this kid got more pleasure from watching others open presents than he did from opening his own.

Rising from his seat at the beautifully decorated table, Kinch threw his arms wide, stretching, then stepped over the bench and ambled over to LeBeau, who was dishing up something that smelled delicious and had a tongue-twister of a name. Kinch reached past him, trying for a taste, and got the back of his knuckles rapped. LeBeau playfully shook the wooden spoon at him, daring him to try again. Giving him a cocky grin, Kinch agilely danced out of range, licking up the tiny bit he had managed to snare with his finger. Chuckling, LeBeau went back to his culinary preparations.

"I hope le colonel has a good appetite when he returns. He hardly touched his lunch today."

"Well, my appetite's just fine," Olsen tossed over his shoulder at them. "And I'll eat anything he doesn't." He frowned down at his cards and threw out two. Parker snatched them up, added them to his own, and then fanned the hand upon the table for everyone to see. Olsen took a look, groaned, and threw his cards down.

"Gin," Parker proclaimed, beaming.

Newkirk leaned in for a closer look. "Bloody hell."

O'Malley – a neutral observer of the game – reached out and tweaked an ace from beneath Newkirk's collar.

"Guess you won't be needing this then."

Newkirk snatched it away with lightning speed, all wide eyes and puzzled innocence. "Don't know how that got there."

"Oh, I have a guess or two," Olsen snorted, resting a forearm on the table and slanting a mock-glare in his direction.

Carter checked his watch and sighed. Kinch walked by, headed to the barracks to check on things there. He squeezed Carter's slumped shoulder in passing.

"He's probably on his way back right now."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Josef Metzger threw the door open wide and gasped. A wavering, bloody apparition stood on the porch of his home, a small, black-draped body in its arms. A brown lock of hair and two small feet were all that he could make out beneath the black jacket.

"Mein Gott, Robert!" Josef stared from Hogan's bloody ear and neckto the body cradled against his chest. Hogan lowered his head, the agony in his faltering voice painful to hear.

"Please take her home. I'm sorry. . . I didn't want to leave her there, but . . . I don't know where she lives . . . She wasn't . . . wasn't . . . supposed to be there. It was an accident. I didn't mean to . . . to do it . . . Please . . . take her home to her parents. Please." Hogan edged closer, slowly extending his arms.

Josef swallowed convulsively, unshed tears clogging his throat. The man he had come to love like a son was brash, strong, confident; always ready to take on anything. Not this man. This man looked and sounded broken - near collapse.

A small, black and white form slunk out of the shadows and up the porch steps to sit at Hogan's feet. Josef blinked down at the little dog and back to the small body in Hogan's arms. In an instant, the enormity of what must have happened crashed over him and he was unable to contain a cry.

"Marta?"

Hogan's head bowed even further, confirming his worst fears. Josef grasped the doorframe, almost faint with grief – for Marta, her parents, and for the obviously heart-broken man trembling on his porch, unable to look him in the face.

"Josef?" Romie called from the kitchen.

Hogan's head jerked up, panic flaring in his bloodshot eyes. "No! I can't face her! Not after what I've done!"

Concerned, hoping to somehow reassure him, Josef reached out to him, but was immediately shaken off. Before he knew what was happening, Hogan pushed forward, transferring Marta's body to his arms. The jacket slipped and Josef found himself staring down at the little girl's ashen features, peaceful in death. Hogan backed away.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Frozen in place by the broken, heartrending cries, Josef could only watch Hogan leap off the porch and flee into the shadows beyond the house lights' reach. The little dog jumped to its feet and went to the porch's top step, but no farther. Somewhere close by, a motor started and Josef heard a vehicle drive away.

He looked down at the little dog, now standing before him, looking up with eyes that appeared to be weeping.

"Come, Mozart," Josef whispered, then slowly turned and went inside, bearing his sad burden. Only then did he realize the palm of his hand – the one that had touched Hogan -- was heavily coated in blood.

* * *

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_

_Thank you for your help, Marilyn & Linda!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"The icing is drying out."

Elbows on the table, head propped in his hands, LeBeau gazed forlornly at the chocolate cake and unlit candles.

A loud pop startled everyone.

"There goes another one," Olsen sighed, stooping to pick up the tattered remnants of a balloon. That was three out of five. Balloons were harder to get than the sweet, French chocolate LeBeau had used to make Hogan's cake, and to Olsen's thinking, more important for a proper party. He fingered the bits of color, unaccountably sadder than the broken balloons merited.

"He's late," Carter said quietly, unnecessarily. "Well, later than I expected he would be." He stared down at the tablecloth's white weave, unable to look at the cake and other party decorations any longer. The celebration that had taken months of planning held little importance now. His only concern was for Hogan's safe return.

Benson stuck his head into the room, his smile immediately dying.

"Hey, where's the colonel?"

"Question of the night," Newkirk sighed, restlessly drumming his fingers on the table. The knife and spoon near his hand jangled softly against each other, disturbed by the vibration.

Kinch stood, driven to action by the haunting vision of empty brown eyes. Before he could speak, a 'ding' rang through the room from the bell rigged to the emergency entrance. Carter jumped to his feet, beaming with happiness.

"There he is!"

Everyone rushed to their places around the room, readying themselves to greet Hogan with a loud, 'Happy Birthday!' when he appeared in the doorway. Several minutes passed without any sign of him and their smiles faded. Newkirk traded worried glances with LeBeau, both knowing that Hogan had to pass through the room to reach his locker and uniform.

"Where is he, then?"

Kinch strode for the tunnel beyond. "Something's wrong."

The farther down the tunnel he went the faster Kinch moved until he was running. He just _knew_ Hogan was in trouble. He did not hear the pounding footsteps behind him as he plunged onward through the narrow passages until he rounded the last corner to the emergency exit – and felt his heartbeat stutter.

Hogan lay crumpled on his side at the foot of the ladder. Kinch lunged forward, covering the remaining distance in several strides and knelt beside him. His hand flew to the blood-caked neck, searching for a pulse.

Carter knelt near him, as close as the cramped space allowed. O'Malley shoved past, both men asking the same question simultaneously.

"Is he alive?"

"Yeah," Kinch breathed, rejoicing in the faint vibration. His heart screamed at him to get Hogan off the ground, to turn him, to do **something**. His head cautioned movement until they knew the full nature of Hogan's condition.

Newkirk ran his eyes over Hogan, then glanced at the ladder, turning explanations over in his mind.

"Did he fall?"

"No way I'm believing that," Olsen protested from amidst the crowd. He had once witnessed Hogan run across a narrow plank between the roofs of two buildings with barely a hitch in balance.

Kinch did not believe it either, but was too distracted by the faint tear tracks on Hogan's cheeks to answer. The oil camouflage was nearly gone, as if Hogan had been rubbing at his face.

"Where's the blood on his neck coming from?" O'Malley asked, unable to see clearly from his position.

Pulling his attention from the disturbing sight, Kinch lightly brushed at the damp, ruffled hair at Hogan's temple, searching for the source. Gasps sounded as a gory mess was revealed.

"His head?" Carter asked fearfully.

"Ear." Kinch grimaced down at the seared flesh.

"Better his ear than his head," Newkirk murmured.

Olsen slowly nodded, whispering, "Amen to that."

"Kinch," O'Malley warned, motioning to the dark stain slowly spreading in the dirt beneath Hogan. "Let's get him on his back so I can see where this is coming from." He shifted, took hold of Hogan's shoulders to support them during the turn and glanced up at Kinch. "Okay, now. Slow and easy."

Kinch gently rested his hand on his CO's side, then quickly withdrew it again. Blood glistened upon his palm. Déjà vu swept over him in a disorienting, sickening wave. O'Malley reached over and pulled on the black sweater, revealing the ragged furrow in Hogan's side.

"Deux fois?" LeBeau gasped, concern for Hogan giving him the strength to stand strong before the sight of blood.

"And counting," Kinch added, wiping his palm on his thigh.

"Come on then," O'Malley said, reaching again for Hogan's shoulders. Once they had him on his back, O'Malley quickly found the other wound.

"Here it is. Aye, it's bad. We dare not carry him back without something under him. The bullet could shift."

Newkirk leaned toward them. "How about a board, then?"

Kinch glanced up sharply, jaw setting. "Find one. O'Malley, go get your bag and meet us back in the room. LeBeau, clear the table and have someone take Klink's stuff back before it's missed. Parker, you're topside. Take over for Paxton. He's been on watch all night. Benson, get Lyons and see if you can find Orion or at least find out what happened out there. The rendezvous coordinates are on the clipboard in the radio room. And be careful! Don't take any chances. The first sign of trouble get back here."

There was some quick shifting in the tight space as the men left to carry out Kinch's orders and Newkirk returned with one of the boards kept around for emergency bracing. Working quickly, he helped Kinch maneuver the board into position and carefully roll Hogan onto it. Kinch went to Hogan's feet, grasped the board and looked up at Newkirk.

"Take that end. I've got this one. Carter, keep the colonel's hands and arms crossed on his stomach. Don't let them fall off to the side. The rest of you give us a clear path."

Slowly, gently, they bore Hogan toward the room meant for his birthday celebration.

The tunnel back was clear, as ordered. But men packed the intersecting tunnels, showing their support and respect for Hogan – as well as their need to be near him. They waited silently while the procession passed, then fell in behind it.

Kinch, Newkirk, Carter and Hogan reached the room only moments before O'Malley returned, bearing his medical bag. He surged toward them, barking orders.

"Get his gun belt off! Somebody bring that other table over here and a basin of water . . . And bring all the clean cloths you can lay your hands on!"

Newkirk, Kinch and Carter lowered Hogan upon the table and O'Malley cut away his sweater, revealing the bullet hole several inches below his right collarbone, still sluggishly oozing blood. The flesh around the wound was bruised and swollen, already raging hot. Muttering a Gaelic oath, O'Malley slid his hand under Hogan's shoulder and muttered another when he did not find an exit wound. Quickly circling the table, he carefully checked the wound in Hogan's side and glanced up at the others with a tight smile.

"Got lucky, here, lads. It's just a deep graze."

"Lucky," Olsen echoed sarcastically, hugging the wall in the hope that Kinch would not order him from the room.

O'Malley looked up with a sharp expression. "Anyone who can't give me room and quiet leaves now."

"Sounds just like someone else we know," Newkirk muttered, shifting on his feet.

Kinch locked eyes with O'Malley and motioned impatiently to Hogan. "Get that thing out of him."

"Aye," O'Malley nodded. "That I will."

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_

_Thank you for your help, Marilyn & Linda!_


	4. Chapter 4

Romie's crying quieted, her breathing slowing to hiccups. Wiping tears with the back of her hand, she let her gaze drift over the lifeless body upon her lap. Marta looked as if she were sleeping. Her small hands were tucked together upon her motionless chest, the fingers slightly curled. Romie cupped one of the little hands, studying the tiny, smooth fingernails. Hiccupping another breath, she lifted her gaze to Marta's face, taking note again of the black lashes, the slightly crooked nose, and the round cheeks that had once held the blush of life. A beautiful, innocent child, a precious life, cut short by a bullet fired from her foster son's gun.

Romie tightly pressed a fist to her lips, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks.

Josef heard his wife's renewed sobbing and turned from the window, where he had been staring blindly into the night. For one of the few times in his life, he truly felt the weight of his years. Only the death of their beloved son Phillip had held this same bone-deep agony.

Easing his weary body down upon the couch beside Romie, Josef put his arm around her quaking shoulders and gently tugged. She curled toward him and rested her head on his chest. Silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and Romie's sniffling. Josef absently rubbed her arm. He dreaded the moment when he would have to break the news of Marta's death to her parents. She had been their only child, the sunny center of their world.

Mozart was huddled in a ball at Romie's hip, his head upon Marta's leg. His brown eyes rolled, flicking back and forth between Romie and Josef's faces, each flick moving the little tufts of hair over his eyes. With a soft sigh and whine, he shifted his front legs, tucking them tighter against his chest. Fighting another flood of tears, Romie ran her hand over his head and overly large ears. Mozart's little, pink tongue flicked out; briefly curling around her little finger.

Josef stared into the fire he had built before their peaceful night had been shattered by a hesitant knock at the door. The fire was guttering now, dying to glowing, red coals. Josef closed his eyes, then quickly opened them again when the afterimage of the fire painted his inner vision red.

The blood of an innocent child had been spilled tonight. Few things were worse. But it had not been Marta's blood that Josef had washed from his palm after placing her into Romie's arms. There was another victim of this night's horrific events – one suffering physical and emotional wounds. Where was he now? Was he slowly dying, like the fire's flames? Was he as much beyond help as Marta?

Josef rubbed his forehead, praying for the strength to tell Romie his suspicions that Hogan had been badly injured. His wife had already had one terrible shock. He could not bring himself to add to her grief. Not yet.

"What are we to do?" Romie whispered, sniffling. She twisted her head, wiping tears on his shirt.

Josef closed his eyes, breathing a long sigh. "We--"

The front door opened and their son, Kurt, briskly strode in, head bent as he unwound his scarf from his neck. Dropping his briefcase beside the hall tree and dumping the scarf upon one its antlered hooks, Kurt started unbuttoning his coat.

"Such a night! It seemed that I would never get away," Kurt grumbled, hanging his coat upon the hall tree. Finger combing his ice-blond hair out of his eyes, he turned toward the great room and his parents. "Now I am late for the party and --"

He froze, one hand still raised to his hair. His wide eyes took in his parents' stricken expressions and his mother's swollen, red eyes, and then dropped to Marta, noticing her stillness and the little dog huddled miserably on the couch. Breath quickening in dread, Kurt slowly approached the couch, his movements jerky and stiff as a puppet's. His voice came out faltering and quiet.

"What has happened?"

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Kinch. A word?"

Tearing his eyes from O'Malley's struggle to remove the bullet from Hogan's chest, Kinch reluctantly followed Newkirk into the tunnel. Their departure briefly drew Carter, LeBeau and Olsen's attention and then they returned to their silent vigil of watching over the surgery. Once in the tunnel, Newkirk threw the men lining the walls a pointed glance and they grudgingly backed away, giving them room and privacy. Kinch put his shoulder to the wall, turned just enough that he could still see inside the room.

"What is it?"

Newkirk held up Hogan's gun belt and with a nod, drew his gaze to the empty holster. "His gun is gone. You know he'd never willingly part with that piece, Kinch. It's his favorite, balanced just right for him alone. It's like a living, breathing part of him when it's in his hand." He passed the gun belt to Kinch and then slid his hands into his trouser pockets, as if needing to warm them.

Kinch slowly turned the oiled leather, grimaced when the light caught on tacky blood spatter. Red used to be his favorite color. No more.

"Another thing," Newkirk continued, suppressed emotion deepening his voice. "What happened to his jacket?"

Kinch shook his head. "Your guess is as good as --"

"Let me through!"

Baker appeared from amongst the men in the tunnel, cap askew from the effort to get to by.

"Kinch! We juh --" The grim tableau beyond Kinch and Newkirk caught Baker's gaze and fear warped his expression. "How bad?"

"Bad enough," Kinch answered simply. "What's going on?"

The question went unanswered. Baker's eyes had locked upon the gun belt in Kinch's hands.

"Baker," Kinch prompted softly. "The radio? You hear something from London?"

Baker blinked and shook his head. "Relay message from Josef Metzger."

"Josef?

Newkirk exchanged puzzled glances with Kinch. "Why would Josef be calling?"

Baker nodded toward the room. "The colonel was at the farm. Josef's worried about him and wants to know if he's okay."

"The guv'nor was at the Metzger's?" Newkirk glanced into the room. O'Malley was still hunched over their CO, his expression appearing grimmer than the last time Newkirk had looked. "What the bloody hell was Colonel Hogan doing there?"

"And where's Orion?" Kinch turned away from Newkirk and Baker and stared at Hogan's face, drawn with pain even in unconsciousness.

"Questions, questions and more questions," he said under his breath, then quietly spoke over his shoulder to Baker. "Tell Josef the colonel made it back and we'll be in touch."

"That's it?"

"For now," Kinch replied, shrugging with a fractional lift of one shoulder. Hearing the full truth of Hogan's injuries would only worry Josef more. He turned his full attention back to the room and the man who was as much a friend as CO. To himself, he spoke the question plaguing everyone's thoughts.

"What happened out there tonight, Colonel?"

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_

_Thank you for your help, Marilyn!_


	5. Chapter 5

O'Malley laid the bloody forceps and probe on a clean cloth beside Hogan's hip, braced his hands on the table and hung his head. Sweat beaded his face and a fine tremor of fatigue had set into his hands. He lifted his head, his expression bleaker than Kinch had ever seen it.

"I'm just doing more damage." O'Malley rested his hand upon the crown of Hogan's head, exhaustion and fear roughening his voice. "The bullet's deep, the wound's swollen, and infection's already set in from all this." He pointed down at the bits of black material and other foreign matter he had pulled from the wound.

A commotion erupted outside the room and Kinch whirled toward the doorway. Tivoli, Jones, Maddux, and Broughton plowed through the men in the tunnels and burst through the doorway. Tivoli approached Kinch head-on, a fiery mix of concern and anger smoldering in his black eyes.

"We just heard. How'd he get shot up?"

Jones leaned to one side, trying to see past Tivoli. "Will he be all right?"

Maddux, square jaw thrust forward at a bulldog angle, rammed past his burlier friends. Anger and the need for retribution boiled in the gray-green eyes that glared up at Kinch.

"Who screwed up?"

Uttering a low growl of frustration, O'Malley shoved away from the table and rounded on Tivoli and Maddux. The move left them a clear view of Hogan and their eyes flew wide. O'Malley shifted sideways to block their view again, jabbing a finger at the tunnel behind them.

"Out with you."

Anger flashed over Tivoli's swarthy face like lightning over black skies. Moving with a speed that took even Kinch by surprise, he slipped by and went for O'Malley. Ducking and dodging between Kinch and Jones, Maddux rushed to back Tivoli. LeBeau, Olsen and Newkirk lunged away from the wall to protect O'Malley while Carter quickly got between them all and Hogan, protecting him from any inadvertant jostling.

"Stop it!"

The bellow stopped everyone in their tracks. Kinch shouldered them all out of the way and took a stand with Carter before the table. Frustrated by their actions and worried sick for Hogan, Kinch stared at them all. "Stop it," he repeated with much less volume. "This is no time to tear each other apart, no matter how useless we feel. The colonel needs us to work together now more than ever."

Tivoli's eyes drifted shut and he relaxed his shoulders with visible effort. "I'm sorry," he said quietly to O'Malley. "The sarge is right. I hate feeling useless."

"Aye." O'Malley offered a nod of apology. "And I'll be asking your forgiveness as well. He is your CO, too."

Maddux glanced away, his breath coming out in a huff. "Yeah, me, too."

Kinch turned to O'Malley. "Ben –"

"He needs better than me, Kinch," O'Malley cut in, rubbing the back of a shaking hand across his forehead.

"We've got someone here who might be able to help," Baker announced from the doorway and turned to one side, allowing whoever it was passage into the room. Kurt emerged from the other men and slowly walked into the room and stopped before Kinch. The utter sadness and pain in his eyes sent a shiver of unease down Kinch's back. Kurt's friendship with Hogan had grown solid and strong since their first meeting. Yet now, with Hogan lying seriously injured, Kurt had yet to even glance in his direction.

"Once the bullet has been removed," Kurt said in a toneless voice. "we must talk."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

_Pain – agony – molten and searing – took his breath. Adrift in a violent, red sea, he strained to breathe, to find something to catch onto and pull himself out._

_A tiny hand appeared over his head, fingers open in invitation. He reached up, out of the thick, clinging, vast waves of blood, and took hold of the little fingers - only to have them disappear in his grasp. _

_He fell back, letting the fiery waves close over his head and take him down._

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

The bullet struck the metal basin, the sound loud enough to reach the men waiting in the tunnel. A muted cheer went up, grins of relief and soft reassurances passing back and forth among them. Inside the room, there were no cheers, nor words of congratulations. O'Malley and Kurt continued working over Hogan's chest in silence, their heads bent close together. He remained deeply unconscious, fever-sweat glistening on his face and matting his hair to his forehead.

Newkirk softly cleared his throat and tucked his hands under his arms in another change of position. He longed for a cigarette to calm his nerves, but could not bring himself to leave the room even for a moment. He, along with everyone close enough to see, could tell that the bullet's removal had not eased O'Malley and Kurt's concern. The crisis was not over. Not by a ruddy long shot. Newkirk sighed softly, shifted again, trying yet another position. He really needed that cigarette.

Carter focused on the slight rise and fall of Hogan's chest, still unable to grasp that their CO was lying on the table that a short time before had held his birthday cake. The two surviving balloons still hung from one of the beams, surreal reminders of what was supposed to have been a joyous occasion. Now . . . Hogan looked as if he had been laid out for his funeral. Feeling the burn of tears, Carter resolutely kept his eyes focused upon the slight movement of Hogan's chest.

LeBeau continued his prayers, conjuring visions of Hogan healthy, active and happy to block out the ugly reality before him. The chocolate cake's sweet fragrance was gone as if it had never been - overpowered by the strong odor of blood. The cake itself had been dropped in the rush to clear the room and trampled into the dirt by running feet. The loss did not bother him in the least. Some losses weren't losses at all. Other losses . . . LeBeau blinked, swiped moisture from his cheek and continued his prayers.

Kinch tilted his head back and replayed another conversation - Hogan's laughing voice sobering to a murmur. Confidences spoken late at night. Fears, hopes, dreams. Experiences shared, challenges met and overcome together, heated arguments and passing differences of opinion. They all passed through his mind – the moments between them – building blocks of a treasured friendship. This would be just another experience they would share later - another challenge overcome with a happy ending. Not the end itself. Closing his eyes, Kinch bowed his head over his folded arms and replayed another conversation.

"Kinch? Hey, Kinch?"

The soft calls finally got through and Kinch looked up. Benson and Lyons were hovering in the doorway, obviously anxious to speak with him. With a quick glance toward the table, Kinch joined them in the tunnel.

"Did you find Orion?"

"Boy, did we, sir." Lyons slumped against the tunnel wall and pulled his black knit cap from his head.

Benson nodded. "He's dead. Along with three Wehrmacht. Looks like there was a helluva shoot-out, Kinch. And there's something else."

He pulled Hogan's gun from the belt at his back, flipped it and offered it to Kinch, butt first. Kinch took it, his eyes tracing its familiar lines.

"Where did you find it?"

Benson shook his head. "This is where it gets weird. Be easiest to tell you why if I lay it out the way I think it happened."

"All right," Kinch agreed, trusting Benson's tracking experience.

"It looks like Orion died first."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because he was shot in the back," Lyons cut in, disgust dripping from his voice.

Benson nodded. "That and the location of the body. Like maybe the Krauts followed him and got the drop on them both. The --"

Kinch held up a hand, glanced over his shoulder at the activity in the room, saw nothing had changed, and motioned for Benson to continue.

"I think the colonel shot the Krauts as they came at him." Benson's lips pressed into a tight smile. "He took 'em out, Kinch. All three."

"But not before they got in their own shots," Kinch added grimly, images of Hogan taking fire going through his mind. He glanced down at the gun again, rubbed his thumb over the polished grip. "So how did he lose his gun?"

Benson hesitated. "I don't think he did."

Kinch's eyebrows flew upward. "What?"

Beckoning to him, Benson stooped and with a finger drew a 'x' in the dirt at their feet. "Orion was here."

Lyons added another three 'x's' and glanced up. "And these are the Krauts."

Benson put another 'x' in the dirt. "This is where the colonel ended up. He checked Orion and then he went over here." He traced a straight line in the dirt to a point slightly to one side of Hogan's 'x', added another 'x' and circled it. "And this is where I found his gun and signs of another body - a small one. Whoever it was . . . is gone now."

Kinch frowned, unable to follow where Benson was leading. Lyons glanced between them, then back to the drawing and sighed.

Looking directly into Kinch's puzzled eyes, Benson said quietly, "The colonel's the most careful guy I know with a weapon - even more than me - and you know how I am about safety and always knowing where my gun is at all times, no matter what." He paused, still holding Kinch's gaze. "You ask me? I think shooting that fourth person shook him so badly he either forgot his gun or left it there deliberately."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

_You missed one, Rob. Losing your touch, brother._

_We'll see about that. Get behind me, Chris, where I know you're safe. Don't move from there until I'm done and the safety's back on. Got it?_

_Yeah, yeah. That can's gonna get away if you don't hurry._

_Very funny._

_With a sharp 'crack', the bullet sped straight and true, sending the tin target spinning high into the air. _

_His hand reached for the pierced can. The moment his fingers contacted the metal, it shifted and distorted, forming a little girl's face with gore pouring from an empty eye socket. _

_His youngest brother's screams echoed in his ears . . ._

_WHAT DID YOU DO?_

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

Kinch re-entered the make-shift surgery, his head swimming from his conversation with Benson and Lyons. Putting it aside for the moment, he waited impatiently with the others while O'Malley and Kurt washed their crimson-stained hands in a basin of water. Kurt finished first and toweling his hands, faced them. The haunted look in the blue eyes struck Kinch like a slap. LeBeau moaned and wobbled on his feet, Newkirk and Carter moving quickly to hold him up. Tears filled Carter's eyes. Newkirk jerked his chin up and stared straight ahead, as if bracing for a blow.

"What the--" Tivoli muttered from the doorway. His gaze jerked from Kurt to O'Malley, his voice rising. "It can't be that bad!"

Kurt went still, surprise, confusion, and finally understanding passing over his face. O'Malley, reaching the same understanding at the very same moment, rushed to reassure them.

"He's not dying," he yelped, extending a hand toward them.

There was a collective sigh of relief and tension seemed to drain from the crowd of men. Kinch did not share their relief. Kurt had not added his own reassurances. One by one, the others seemed to realize the same thing and the tension level climbed again. With a sigh and small shake of his head, Kurt handed off the towel to O'Malley and braced his hands on his hips. Kinch tensed, sensing he was not going to like whatever the doctor had to say.

"What is it, Doc?" Olsen asked, unable to wait.

Kurt's gaze passed over them, finally settling upon Kinch again. "May we speak in private?"

Kinch blinked. After a moment's thought, he asked, "About Colonel Hogan's condition?"

A muscle in Kurt's jaw jumped. He chose his words carefully. "His condition . . . and recovery . . . may . . . be affected by what I wish to speak with you about, yes."

"Then say whatever you need to." Kinch made a vague gesture, indicating everyone present. "They have a right to hear, too."

Kurt nodded with obvious reluctance. "Very well."

"Get on with it, then," Newkirk snapped, on edge from worry and the lack of a cigarette. Murmurs of agreement went up from the crowd in the tunnel. LeBeau's hand closed about Newkirk's forearm, offering both comfort and restraint.

"Forgive me," Kurt sighed, putting a hand to his eyes. "This is very hard."

Carter sent a quick, scared glance in Hogan's direction. "Doc. . ."

The plea cut through Kurt's distress. "I can only tell you what I little I know."

"Pieces of a bloody puzzle," Newkirk said under his breath. Kurt heard him, nonetheless, and gave him a sharp glance. His words were even sharper.

"You have no idea."

A low-throated growl issued from between Tivoli's clenched teeth and he slammed a white-knuckled fist against the doorframe, startling the men around him. "Say it, damnit!"

"A child . . . a little girl . . . died tonight. By the colonel's hand."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

_Here. Like this._

_Giggles floated around him; little fingers grasp and follow his own as they construct intricate folds of paper. _

_Like this? _

_More giggles, blending with laughter from older, loving souls._

_There you go. You did it._

_The graceful, pure white swan in their hands writhed and shrieked, crumbled to dust and fell through their fingers. Laughing green eyes turned milky white; giggles gave way to a child's voice, shrill with betrayal._

_YOU DID IT! _

* * *

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_

_Thank you for your help, Marilyn!_


	6. Chapter 6

_I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. _

_As always, my thanks go out to Marilyn for her help._

**Chapter Six**

"He wouldn't . . ." Carter breathed into the silence that had fallen over the room.

Kurt's lips thinned. "He did."

Quietly, he told them what little he knew. In the charged silence that followed, he returned to his medical bag, pulled out a packet and handed it to O'Malley.

"He's already had one dose," Kurt told him, scribbling on a piece of paper. Finishing, he shoved the paper into O'Malley's other hand. "The instructions for the other doses. Move him out of this dampness as soon as possible. It's not good for his lungs. Pneumonia would be the final stick to the camel's back."

O'Malley glanced from the crumpled paper to Kurt. "You're not staying?"

Kurt's expression softened. "There is nothing further I can do for the colonel that you cannot do yourself."

"But . . ." O'Malley weakly gestured with the paper to Hogan.

Kurt smiled reassuringly. "He is in good hands." Grasping his bag, he brushed past the other men and headed for the exit.

Kinch quickly instructed O'Malley not to move Hogan until his return, and then went after Kurt. He caught up to him easily.

"Doc."

Kurt's head went up and he stopped but did not turn around. Kinch frowned and glanced around. He would have preferred a more private area of the tunnels to have this conversation.

"Doc?"

Kurt's tense shoulders slumped; he took a deep breath and slowly turned.

"What?"

The harsh tone surprised Kinch. Softly, he asked, "How will your parents explain Marta's death?"

Kurt's hand clenched on the handles of the bag, the pressure bleaching his knuckles white. "Vater will say that he had heard gun shots as he was passing Frau Hinkel's pasture. She is quite elderly and nearly deaf, so she would not have heard the shots. Vater was concerned that someone might have poached her milk cow and went to check on it. It was then that he found Marta's body, her dog and the dead soldiers nearby. He could only guess that the soldiers had been killed in a gun battle of some sort and that Marta must have been killed by a stray shot."

Kinch nodded. The explanation sounded like it would work, but it also presented another concern. "What about the curfew? Won't Marta's parents wonder why Josef was out so late?"

Kurt's shoulders twitched in a listless shrug and his gaze traveled to a point behind Kinch. "Many brave the curfew for various reasons. Marta's parents included."

Kinch shifted, seeking to make direct eye contact. "Your parents . . . how are they holding up?"

Kurt looked away, fighting roiling emotions. "The colonel was in pain, in shock and most likely not thinking clearly. Nevertheless, he placed Mater and Vater in a dangerous position, and accident or not, he killed a child they loved like a granddaughter."

Kinch took a deep breath and carefully asked, "And what was she to you, Doc?"

Kurt's gaze snapped back to him. "She was . . . a child who had her whole life ahead of her." He drew in a shaky breath, his composure hanging by a thread. "And now she is dead."

_Because he shot her._

The words hung in the air, unspoken but heard nonetheless.

Kinch felt his fingernails dig into his palms. "He was under fire, or had been. She must have moved. He thought he was still in danger and he reacted. I would have done the same thing. Any one of us would have. I'm sorry, Doc. We all are. But don't forget that it just as easily could have been the colonel who died out there tonight."

Kurt sighed, rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "As it is, his injuries will keep him from attending morning roll call. How will you explain his absence and keep his injuries from Kommandant Klink?"

"I'm still working on that."

Kurt gave him a tight smile. "Then I suggest you work quickly. Dawn is only an hour or so away." As if spurred by the reminder, he turned on his heel and started walking again.

"You're certain he'll be all right?"

"Nothing is certain," Kurt shot back, keeping his eyes stubbornly fixed upon the tunnel ahead. "However, I am confident that he will recover from his wounds."

"I hear a 'but'," Kinch sighed.

"His emotional recovery is more uncertain. He is a strong man, as we know. But something like this?" He gave a hard shake of his head and said no more.

They had reached the ladder. Kurt grabbed it, put a foot on the lower-most rung and paused there, eyes forward, index finger lightly tapping the ladder. A few seconds of tapping went by and then sad blue eyes turned in Kinch's direction.

"You understand there is only one way he will truly recover from this."

Kinch nodded. "He needs to talk about what happened." A short, bitter chuckle escaped. "We have a better chance of convincing Klink to tear down the fences and plant geraniums."

Kurt regarded him intently. "Of all of us, you have the best chance of getting him to do it."

Kinch's gaze sharpened. "There's you."

"In this case," Kurt said softly. "I am probably one of the last people he will want to see." He glanced up the ladder, mumbling, "And for the moment, I am not certain that I wish to see him either." He started climbing, giving Kinch no chance to respond.

Kinch watched the lid fall back to cover the entrance, then went up and re-secured the trip wire to their alarm. Once back on the floor, he leaned his shoulder against the ladder and wearily rubbed his gritty eyes.

If only they could wake up from this nightmare.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

_Screams of anguish and horror died to sobs._

_Faces, well-loved and kind, twisted with sorrow, dripping silver tears._

_Hands, tiny and large – closed into fists, streams of blood pouring from between the clenched fingers._

_Angry voices thundered in his ears. _

_YOU DID THIS! YOU!_

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

"He's really restless."

Carter's words were the first spoken since they had carried Hogan to the barracks and laid him in his bunk. The room was quiet, lit only by a single lantern on the desk, wick turned high to illuminate the bunk's wounded occupant.

"It is probably the fever." LeBeau tucked the blanket about Hogan's shoulders and brushed a hand across the sweaty brow. Hogan turned his head away, muttering something unintelligible. LeBeau sadly clucked his tongue.

Carter tore his gaze from Hogan's face and looked up at Kinch. "I wish the doc had stayed." Remorse flashed over his face and he glanced behind Kinch, finding O'Malley in the shadows. "I just meant--"

"It's all right, Carter," O'Malley quietly assured him. He wished the same thing. When it came to treating their commanding officer, he wondered if he would ever feel his skills were good enough.

"So why didn't he?" Paxton left the doorway and joined them, walking stiffly from standing in one position for so long. Behind him, the common room was dark, but not one of the men there was sleeping. Worry and Kurt's news had seen to that.

"He was worried about his mum and da. Can't say as I blame him." Newkirk's eyes remained upon Hogan, watching closely – as they all were – for signs he was waking. "It was quite a shock they had tonight. Awful business, this."

Olsen, silent as one of the shadows clinging to the edges of the room, raised his eyes to the ceiling, blinking furiously. He had never met Marta, but he had no trouble imagining how he would feel if a bullet from his gun had ended her life.

"Some birthday," Paxton muttered, watching Hogan's head toss on the pillow.

Kinch suddenly thought back to another time and another vigil at Hogan's bedside. At Kurt's urging, they had spent hours speaking to their CO, coaxing him to wake from a coma. Later, Hogan had revealed bits and pieces of remembered information from their one-sided conversations, as well as one of Newkirk's jokes.

"Change the subject to something more positive," Kinch said, glancing around the room. "He doesn't need the reminders."

"Kinch . . ." Carter warned, slowly sinking to his knees beside the bed. Hogan's movements were intensifying, as if he were fighting something they could not see.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

_Waves of thick crimson poured over his head, driving him to his knees. He gasped for air and swallowed scalding liquid instead. Choking, drowning, he dragged his head up with the last of his strength . . . desperately seeking help from the torrent._

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

"Easy. Easy, Colonel. Take it easy."

Hogan gasped and his eyes shot open. Still locked in the nightmare, he groaned and rolled onto his side, straining to breathe. Gray, blurry objects moved before him as he gasped and gulped for air. Snatches of words floated to him through his confusion.

"Slow breaths, in . . . and out . . . Aye. That's --"

"You made it back -- safe with -- Stalag 13. You made --"

"Don't -- a thing, Guv'nor."

"You're going – okay --"

"Rest, sir. Just rest. That's --"

"-- right here, _colonel_."

Hogan squeezed his eyes shut, still fighting to separate nightmare from reality. It was hot, his chest was throbbing, his ear felt badly sunburned, and his side ached. The voices were still trying to soothe him, but he wanted none of it. Something was horribly wrong.

There was a touch upon his legs, another on his shoulder, another on his head and he felt himself gently but firmly being turned onto his back. He tried to tell them to stop talking and leave him alone. All that came out was a moan. The voices paused, then began again as the hands pressed him back.

Frustrated, he blocked the voices out and tried to concentrate. Pain and heat beat at him and then memory returned in a rush of images, smells and sounds.

Orion.

The Wehrmacht.

Marta.

The dog's whimpers.

Carrying Marta's body.

Stealing the truck.

Josef's face.

Romie's voice.

Marta's blood on his hands.

_I killed her._

The visions whirled and spun, around and around, faster and faster to the sounds of gunfire and screams. The sharp, sickening odor of sheered copper flooded his sinuses, suffocating him. His stomach cramped and rolled. Bile surged into his throat. The voices grew panicked. Hands hurriedly turned and supported him as his stomach emptied. Gasping, exhausted and racked with pain, he sank into the darkness, leaving the voices behind.

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you for reading and especially to those who have reviewed. __Thank you, also, to Marilyn for her continued help._

**Chapter Seven**

"He's out again."

"Boy, that was close."

"Aye, that it was. Let's not be doing that again, sir."

"Here, then." Newkirk leaned past LeBeau and extended his open hand toward the waste can they had used to catch the vomit. "Let me take that out and empty it. Don't want the smell to bring on another round."

"From any of us," Olsen muttered, laying one hand upon his stomach.

Carter passed the waste can to Newkirk. He headed for the door, holding it at arm's length and breathing through his mouth.

"Wait!" Kinch ordered, throwing his hand out.

Newkirk paused and looked back. His eyebrows jumped in surprise when Kinch crooked a finger, motioning him to return.

"Set it there." Kinch pointed to a spot near the head of the bed.

"Why leave it here?" Paxton hugged the wall, giving Newkirk and the waste can plenty of room to pass.

A faint grin curled Kinch's lips. "Because it's perfect."

"Oh, that's good," Newkirk grumbled, placing the waste can back on the floor. "And here I was thinking you weren't making any sense."

"I get it," Carter grinned. "You're going to tell Klink the colonel's sick and can't come to roll call and the . . ." he gestured toward the waste can. "will back you up."

"That's the plan." Kinch turned to O'Malley, who was crouched beside the bunk, fussing with the blankets. "Be sure they're clear up to his chin. We don't want Klink to see the bandages."

"And what of the ear?" O'Malley gently rolled Hogan's head toward them, displaying the injured left ear. A raw, open wound cut across the very top. "How will we be hiding this? If Carter hadn't just cut his hair, it could have been brushed to cover --"

"The haircut!" LeBeau exclaimed. "We could say the scissors slipped!"

Kinch's speculative look switched from Hogan to Carter and his eyebrow arched. A sheepish grin crossed Carter's face, one shoulder doing a quick shrug.

"What can I say? I'm not good with sharp objects."

A glance passed between Newkirk and Olsen, but they did not have any better ideas to offer. Wanting a better look at his CO, Paxton leaned forward to see past the group. Hogan lay silent and still, his earlier struggles having sapped his remaining strength. "Do you think Klink will buy it, Kinch?"

"I hope so," Kinch murmured, glancing toward the common room as Schultz's voice rang out for roll call. His gaze returned to Hogan and the helplessness he felt showed in his expression. "Maybe I should stay with him."

O'Malley stood, lines of weariness etched in his face. "He should be all right until we get back. We won't be gone long, anyway."

"Not when Klink realizes the colonel's missing from roll call," Carter said softly, turning for the door.

Kinch cast a last, lingering glance at Hogan's pale, sweaty face and followed.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

_Roll call._

The two words blazed in Hogan's mind, floating in a sea of darkness.

_Roll call._

Why were those two short words so important? Why wouldn't they fade instead of growing brighter, larger and more urgent?

Hot and uncomfortable, he tried shifting to another position. The dull ache in his side exploded to full-fledged pain and the words vanished in a flare of throbbing white light. Trembling, he peeled heavy eyelids open and blinked until he was able to pick out recognizable details from his blurry surroundings. Desk. Stool. Locker. His quarters. He was in his quarters.

The room felt cold, but that was probably because he felt so hot. A sour smell tainted the air and an awful aftertaste coated his mouth. He had been sick. On the heels of that revelation came another. Saliva flooded his mouth and only repeated swallowing convinced what little he had left in his stomach to remain there.

Marta.

He groaned, bolts of pain searing his shoulder, chest and side. It was hardly the worst pain he had ever felt, yet it was sharp and deep enough to cause his vision to gray over. Lying perfectly still and breathing carefully, he waited for it to ease and his sight to return.

He had to concentrate. He had to focus beyond the horrifying reality of what he had done and look instead to what must be done now. He had to be clear-headed for whatever Kinch had planned.

Marta's face flashed before him, bright and full of life, her joyful laughter at mastering the origami swan ringing in his ears. A sob caught in his throat.

_I'm sorry._

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

"Sick," Klink repeated, pausing by the woodstove to throw another derisive look at Kinch. The rest of the men entered the barracks, gathering as a silent, unified group. Schultz, Stalag 13's sergeant of the guard, pushed his way inside far enough to close the door, then took one look at the crowd and decided to remain where he was.

"Yes, sir," Kinch answered. "Really sick."

Klink's eyes narrowed. "This illness came on rather suddenly. I distinctly remember Hogan felt well enough at last night's roll call to make derogatory remarks about our illustrious Luftwaffe." He glanced toward Hogan's door. Before he could take a step in that direction, Kinch moved to block his path. Klink glared, purposely crowding him in an effort to intimidate.

"Step aside, Kinchloe."

"I'd rather you not disturb him, sir," Kinch responded, his expression impassive.

Amusement glittered in Klink's eyes. "He isn't in there, is he?" He tried shoving Kinch aside, but lacked sufficient strength to do so.

"He **is **in there, Kommandant, and he needs rest. He was sick all night."

"Get out of my way," Klink snapped, losing patience. "Or you and every man in this barracks will find yourselves in the cooler for a week."

Several moments passed and then Kinch sighed and moved aside. Klink swept by, pushed Hogan's door open and went inside. The men crowded around the door, anxious to see if Hogan had regained consciousness. Schultz started forward, realized he stood even less chance of getting by than before, and resigned himself to waiting where he stood.

Klink's nose wrinkled at the unpleasant and unmistakableodor of fresh vomit wafting from the waste can near Hogan's bunk.

"Hogan, what is the . . ." Klink's brow furrowed. Hogan's eyes were partially open and glassy, his expression blank. Klink bent forward at the waist and into his line of sight, trying to catch his attention. "Hogan?"

The brown eyes blinked, and slowly, Hogan looked up. Concern shivered down Klink's spine. Hogan's eyes had never held such desolation. Not even after days of intense interrogation by the Gestapo.

"Kommandant." The voice was raspy and so low Klink went to a knee beside the bunk without even thinking. At this range, he got a very good look at the sweat-soaked, ashen face, and the blood crusting Hogan's ear.

"What happened to your ear?"

Hogan stared at him, as if trying to make sense of the question.

"It was my fault, sir."

Klink looked toward the door. Carter brushed past Kinch, his quiet voice contrite, his eyes downcast.

"I cut it while I was giving him a haircut."

Klink winced, jerked his hand up to cover his own ear.

A low moan came from the bed. Hogan's eyes were tightly closed, his jaw taut. Sweat ran down his face and neck, staining the pillow beneath his head. He clutched the blanket, twisting the material in his fist. Alarmed, Klink rested a hand on the edge of the mattress and bent toward him.

"Are you in pain, Hogan?"

"Stomach," Hogan forced out, gasping and gray with nausea. "You might . . . want to . . . move." He made an abortive attempt to roll toward the side of the bed, moaning in pain.

Klink quickly stood and moved away, placing himself well out of range. Kinch lunged forward, swooped the waste can up and set it in front of Hogan.

"Easy, sir," Kinch whispered, supporting his CO and keeping him covered. Brown eyes glazed with pain flicked up to his face, then slid shut again.

Klink watched, his throat tightening in sympathy. There was no question Hogan would be unable to stand, let alone attend roll call.

After a few moments, the nausea appeared to ebb and Hogan sank deeper into the mattress, sweat glistening on his face. Kinch set the waste can aside and with a gentle touch, wiped the sweat away.

Klink glanced toward the doorway. Déjà vu catapulted him back in time, to another occasion when he had seen such fear in the eyes of Hogan's men, when Hogan had lain in this same bunk, unconscious and unresponsive. As he had then, Klink wondered if Hogan's condition was more serious than what he was being led to believe.

"Very well, Hogan," Klink said, worry softening his voice. "You are excused from roll call until you have recovered." His words received only a vague glance in acknowledgement from Hogan and none at all from Kinch. Frowning, strangely reluctant to leave, Klink returned to his headquarters, Schultz and a sense of uneasiness dogging his heels.

_TBC . . . _


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you, everyone for your reviews! _

_And a big thank you to Marilyn for her continued help._

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"Colonel? Sir, are you still awake?"

Hogan blinked, groggily looked in Kinch's general direction and saw little more than a large, vague shape.

"Klink's gone, sir."

_Kinch . . . what? Klink? Oh, yeah. Klink was here._

It was getting harder and harder for Hogan to think and it felt as though a fire was blazing away right next to his bunk. He feebly pushed at the blanket's constricting folds, feeling suffocated by heat, yet icy cold at the same time.

"Leave that there, sir. You've a fever."

Hogan squinted, trying to find O'Malley in the darkness starting to creep in around the edges of his vision. He recognized the bit of dark, auburn color that momentarily loomed closer as the medic's hair. Hands carefully repositioned the blanket, tucking it around him.

Something incredibly cold passed over his forehead, moved on to his cheeks and chin, then his neck. He flinched away from it, gasping as pain rocketed through his shoulder, chest, and side and stars flickered across his vision.

A hand briefly cupped his neck, just under his jaw and then fingers touched his throat. He thought he heard O'Malley mumble something.

_Leave me alone. Please . . . just leave me alone._

He struggled to free his hand from beneath the blanket and felt the limb barely move. Groaning in pain, frustrated by his body's betrayal, he rallied rapidly fading strength. He managed to slip his hand free, only to have it immediately enclosed within a strong, but gentle grip. Kinch's voice floated to him from what sounded like a great distance.

"Take it easy, Colonel. Everything'll be all right. You're going to be okay."

_All right? Nothing is ever going to be all right again, Kinch, and I'm not going to be okay any time soon, either. _

_Marta _. . . Hogan silently cried out, going limp. His hand was gently placed under the blanket again.

_It would have been better if the patrol had caught me. Or killed me. At least then . . . Marta would still be alive._

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

Kinch gazed down at Hogan, the wet cloth in his hand momentarily forgotten. His CO was ghostly pale, trembling with fever. O'Malley and Kurthad both assured him that Hogan would recover.

_So,_ Kinch sighed to himself, fingering the cloth. _Why don't I feel reassured? _

Leaning forward in his chair, he gripped the top of Hogan's good shoulder and spoke just above a whisper.

"You'll be okay."

Hogan twisted beneath Kinch's touch, pushing his face into the folds of the pillow. Kinch's frown deepened. Something about the reaction made him uneasy.

"Kinch? Is something wrong?"

Carter's whisper sounded loud in the silence of the room. Still watching Hogan closely, Kinch dropped the cloth into the bowl, ignoring the splash of water onto his foot. Hogan had grown quiet, though his forehead was deeply furrowed. Kinch bit the inside of his lip.

"Mate?" Newkirk knelt beside Kinch's chair, looked up at him in concern. "Why don't you let one of us take over here for awhile and you go have a rest?"

"Oui, mon ami." LeBeau came up behind Kinch and rested a hand on his shoulder. "We will let you know if _le colonel_ wakes."

Kinch did not respond, his eyes still fixed upon Hogan. O'Malley sighed, and with a slight shake of his head, moved to Kinch's other side.

"He'll sleep now, which is the best thing for him."

Kinch cocked his head, listening. O'Malley's words made sense. Dragging a hand over his face, he finally gave in to the yawn he had been stifling all morning.

"Kinch," Carter gently prodded, taking up position beside LeBeau. Kinch smiled briefly. He was surrounded and outnumbered. He glanced once more at Hogan, then slowly rose.

"Okay." He went to the door and then looked back, one hand gripping the door frame. "But the minute he wakes up, I want to know about it."

They nodded agreement and he started once again to leave, only to stop short. Tired or not, he needed to take care of his friends. He looked back at them, seeing his own worry and exhaustion in their faces. Facing them fully, he dredged up what he hoped looked like a smile and not a grimace.

"One at a time, okay? I'm not the only one who's been up all night and needs rest."

Carter plopped down in the chair beside Hogan's bunk, presenting a determined expression to the group. "I'll go first."

Kinch's smile faded quickly. He swept the men with a steady gaze, pressing the order home. "Two hour shifts."

"Right," Newkirk agreed, nodding. "Just like last time."

"Yeah," Kinch said softly, his exhaustion suddenly weighing more heavily upon him. "Just like last time."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kurt dragged himself into his office and across the endless distance to his desk. He stood looking down at it for several moments, not really seeing it, then sank into the chair and leaned it back as far as it would go.

_So much has happened_, he thought, closing his eyes and wearily rubbing his temple. _So many lives have been affected by that split second decision._

Worried about his parents and wanting to report on Hogan's condition, he had stopped at the farm before going on to the Krankenhaus. He found his mother huddled in her rocker, Hogan's blood-dampened jacket face up on her lap. She acknowledged his arrival with a glance, then looked back down at the jacket. She spoke slowly, as if drugged.

"_I thought the blood was Marta's . . . until I found this." She slipped her hand inside the jacket, stuck a badly trembling finger through the bullet hole in the shoulder. Lifting her head to lock eyes with him, she stroked her hand across the black material to the jacket's side and pointed out another hole. "And this." _

_His throat had suddenly grown too tight to speak. His father's hand came to rest upon his shoulder, squeezed gently._

"_I had asked Kurt not to say anything of Robert's injuries until he knew more, Mater."_

_Romie looked back down at the jacket, nodding slowly. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Did he . . . is he . . . ?" Her voice crackled with unshed tears._

_Kurt went to his knees beside the rocker and gathered her into his arms. His touch broke her control. Sobbing, she laid her head upon his shoulder, holding him tightly. _

"_No, Mater, no."_

Once she had calmed, Kurt explained Hogan's injuries and expressed his firm belief in Hogan's recovery. Relieved, she retreated to the kitchen. There, she busied herself making a breakfast that no one felt like eating.

Kurt and his father had retreated to the porch. In the half-light of dawn, his father told him what had happened when they returned Marta to her parents.

Karl and Margaret had – after a flood of tears and questions – accepted the false explanation of Marta's death. Having lost a child of their own, Kurt's parents understood that nothing they said would lessen Karl and Margaret's pain. They left the grieving young couple, taking Mozart with them, since Karl and Margaret could no longer bear to have him in their home.

A fluttering sound drew Kurt out of his thoughts and he traced the sound to the window. A pigeon flitted about on the other side of the grimy glass, wings beating the air as it decided whether to alight upon the sill. He watched it with little interest until it flew away, then squeezed his eyes shut, restlessly rocking the chair.

'What ifs' haunted him.

What if Karl and Margaret had helped Marta look for Mozart instead of promising to do so in the morning?

What if Robert's rendezvous with Orion had been at a different location or had taken place even a few minutes later?

What if Mozart had chosen to wander a different path?

What if Marta had stayed hidden rather than ran?

What if Robert's impeccable aim had been off for once?

What if . . .

Every answer came up the same. Marta would still be alive.

Kurt's head lolled on his shoulders, a weak, watery chuckle escaping. He was second-guessing, falling into the same trap he had after Evangeline and Phillip's deaths.

_Do not do this. It changes nothing – only sharpens grief's jagged teeth. _

As if mocking him, another pair of questions flashed into his mind.

What if Robert had collapsed **outside **the tunnel rather than inside?

What if he had **never made it back at all?**

"_. . . don't forget that it just as easily could have been the colonel who died out there . . ._" Kinch's voice whispered to him.

Kurt shot to his feet, paced to the window and gripped the sill so hard his fingernails dug into the peeling paint. After a few seconds of staring blindly at the sky, he turned and flung himself back into his chair. He rocked it back again, drumming his fingertips upon the scarred wooden arms as he stared up at the cracked ceiling.

"_And I am not certain I wish to see him either."_

How he wished that he could pull those ill-spoken words back! He had known from the first that Kinch was right. Robert had only been defending himself and would never have expected a child to be in the woods at that time of night. Caught in the open with the enemy trying to kill him, his first instinct would rightly be to shoot at any movement, at anything that might shoot back. He could not possibly have known Marta would be there.

Of course she would run from the horror of seeing men shot down – and by a man she knew and trusted.

Her death had been a tragic accident. No one's fault. Not even Robert's.

Kurt bent forward, put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

_Robert . . . _

"_. . . don't forget that it just as easily could have been the colonel who died out there . . ." _Kinch reminded him yet again.

Yet again, his friend – his brother – had almost died. That, Kurt realized after leaving Stalag 13, was at the very foundation of his anger. It was not because Robert had killed Marta, nor was it because Robert had placed his parents in a dangerous position. Kurt had done the very same more than once. And though he hoped never to do it again, he was not foolish enough to dismiss the possibility that he still might.

"_And I am not certain I wish to see him either."_

"Verdamnt!"

Kurt lunged to his feet, grabbed a paperweight from his desk and drew back his arm. At the very last possible second, he realized what he was doing. With a broken sob, he collapsed into the chair, gently returned the paperweight to its place, then folded his arms upon the desk and rested his chin upon them.

"What if?" he choked out, staring into space. Robert's face appeared before him, his expression solemn, the brown eyes calm.

"_. . . just as easily could have been the colonel. . ."_

Kurt closed his eyes, slowly shook his head.

If events had happened differently, the name Robert Hogan would have been added to the growing list of loved ones he had lost to the war. Evangeline, his beloved wife and their unborn child. His Uncle Leidel. His brother Phillip. And now little Marta.

_". . . could have been the colonel. . ."_

Kurt groaned.

He had directed his anger at the very one he was afraid for!

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH**

Hogan drifted in a haze of heat. Darkness blanketed him, occasionally disturbed by whispers and a soft voice - not always the same one, but always familiar.

Carter. LeBeau. Newkirk. O'Malley.

His men. They were worried about him. He could hear it in their voices. His silent response was always the same and always held a sharp, bitter edge.

_Don't worry about me. I'll be fine._

* * *

_TBC . . ._


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank you, everyone for your reviews! _

_And thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

Kinch jolted awake, his heart slamming against his ribs. He could never remember the nightmares, only flashes of vague, threatening images and snatches of conversation in distorted, unfamiliar voices. He rubbed his forehead, wishing the nightmares could be wiped away as easily as the sweat on his brow. 

"Kinch? You all right, mate?" Newkirk eyed him from the common room table. A plate of uneaten food sat before him, one of their battered tin cups cradled between his hands.

Taking a steadying breath, Kinch sat on the edge of his bunk. He needed a few moments to shake off the nightmare's clinging effects. Newkirk studied him, then left the table and moved to stand before him.

"Another one?" Newkirk prodded, regarding him with compassion.

Kinch nodded, not trusting his voice just yet, and looked toward Hogan's quarters. Through the doorway, he could see LeBeau and Carter sitting vigil at Hogan's bedside. O'Malley stood nearby, a towel and basin in his hands.

"He's not doing so well, Kinch," Newkirk sighed, sitting beside him on the bunk. "The fever's climbing again."

The hollow feeling in Kinch's stomach got a little worse. "The infection?"

"Yeah." Newkirk studied the floor at their feet. "Ben just finished draining and cleaning the wounds again."

"Maybe that'll take care of it and the fever will break soon." Kinch really wished he believed that, but the nightmare was still too fresh. He shuddered; hard enough the bed creaked beneath them. Newkirk's gaze shot up to his face. Kinch stood to avoid more questions, his body feeling heavy and sluggish. What little sleep he had managed over the course of the day had been far from restful. Too many nightmares. He rubbed his gritty eyes, fighting down another shudder.

"He's wasting away before our eyes," Newkirk murmured, looking toward Hogan's quarters. Their CO's cheeks were already hollow, his eyes sunken and dark, as if he had gone without food for a week.

"Ben," Kinch called softly as the medic slowly walked out of Hogan's quarters. "Is he keeping the water down now?"

O'Malley nodded. Setting the cloth and basin on the table, he dropped onto a bench and put his face in his hands. Kinch and Newkirk glanced at each other in concern.

"Do you remember," O'Malley said, so low Kinch and Newkirk moved closer to hear. "When he was in the coma and Kurt told us to talk to him, to tell him how much he meant to us, and how much we needed him so that he'd want to wake up?" He glanced at them from between his splayed fingers. They nodded. O'Malley released a shuddering sigh and dropped his hands to the table.

"What if it's not enough this time?"

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Klink lifted his eyes to the cuckoo clock as it heralded another hour. Giving the ledger on his desk a baleful look, he stood, and after stretching the kinks from his back, left his office. His appearance surprised Schultz, who had been nodding off in a chair against the wall. He shot to his feet and braced to attention, guilt rounding his eyes. Containing a sigh, Klink shifted his gaze to Fraulein Hilda. His secretary's shoulders were sagging from a day of sorting, typing and filing monthly reports. Klink hid a flinch when she threw a slightly accusing look in his direction.

"The rest of the reports can wait until tomorrow, Fraulein Hilda. Schultz, see her to the gate, then return here immediately. Bring Langenscheidt with you."

His curiosity clearly piqued, Schultz threw off a salute, opened the door for Hilda and gestured her through. Klink re-entered his office, closing the door behind him.

The decanter of schnapps on the side table drew his eye. He poured a generous amount of the amber liquid into a glass and carried it to his desk. He stared into the golden depths, seeing Hogan's face, yet hearing Major Wolfgang Hochstetter's rough, angry voice.

The Gestapo officer's mid-day call had interrupted Klink's meal and soured his stomach to the rest of it. Hochstetter's calls rarely contained good news, and this time was no exception. Three members of a Wehrmacht patrol had been gunned down the night before, as well as a man Hochstetter believed was an agent for the Underground. Additionally, a truck had been found abandoned in a roadside ditch with a large amount of blood on the seat. Hochstetter had theorized the blood belonged to the killer. Dogs had been summoned and tracked the scent to a nearby stream, where they had lost it.

Klink tossed back the schnapps, grimacing as the alcohol trailed fire down his throat.

Hochstetter had been furious. There was nothing unusual about that. Hochstetter seemed to always be in a state of fury - at least whenever he was in Klink's presence.

The unusual part of the conversation came near the end, when Hochstetter's fury had suddenly died. Casually, but with the silky lilt to his voice that always sent shivers down Klink's spine, he had thrown out what seemed an unrelated question.

"_How is Hogan, Klink?"_

"_Hogan? The same as always. Infuriating, demanding, sarcastic. Just this morning after roll call, he--"_

"_This morning, did you say?"_

"_Yes. He waltzed into my office without permission and actually had the nerve to ask --"_

The dead air of a disconnected line had halted Klink's rambling. He had stared at the telephone receiver, attempting to slow his racing heartbeat. What could have possessed him to spin lies to a man who would eagerly welcome the excuse to have him shot?

Klink morosely contemplated the empty glass in his hand, returned to the sideboard and poured more schnapps. After eying the level of liquid in the glass, he tipped the bottle and added more. Setting the bottle back on the sideboard with less than his usual care, he went to the window and pulled back the curtain.

It was just past dusk and stars were starting to appear amongst the low-hanging, pewter clouds. A beautiful night. Klink sighed, rubbing the pad of his thumb slowly up and down the side of his glass.

According to Hochstetter, Hogan was responsible for every act of sabotage that befell the region – and beyond! _The allegations were absurd_, Klink huffed, unknowingly tightening his grip on the glass. _Hogan is a prisoner of war! _He lived in captivity, behind high fences topped by razor-sharp barbed wire, with guards and trained, vicious dog patrolling just outside. Wily as Hogan was, he could not come and go from Stalag 13 as he pleased, nor could he access the resources needed to pull off such sabotage.

_Hochstetter is unreasonably obsessed with Hogan_, Klink mused, letting his gaze drift to Barracks Two. _He comes to Stalag 13 any time anything goes wrong, demanding to see Hogan, demanding that he be interrogated, disrupting my camp and giving me monumental headaches._

Klink's lips twitched into a fleeting grimace. _No wonder I rushed to deflect his interest from Hogan. Anything to avoid another 'visit' from that fool!_

He glanced down at his drink, swirled the liquid in the glass.

_Besides, Hogan is deathly ill at the moment, hardly able to withstand . . ._

Klink's gaze snapped up; fastened on Barracks Two again.

_Hogan is deathly ill. Hochstetter believed the patrol's killer had been badly wounded._

He swallowed nervously. _The two can not be connected._

_Could they?_

He let the curtain fall as he heard Schultz and Langenscheidt enter the outer office. Tossing back the last of the schnapps, he thunked the glass down on his desk and grabbed up his cap and gloves.

Perhaps his visit with Hogan would reveal the answer.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Klink is coming!"

Olsen closed the door, ran to his bunk and quickly took up a relaxed position. All around the barracks, men scrambled to hide anything incriminating. O'Malley dove for the medicine Kurt had left for Hogan, concealing it in the crate beside the stove, under a false stack of wood. Parker hopped out of the tunnel, slapping at the hidden lever to close the entrance. It rattled down on its pulleys, coming to rest in the bunk frame just as the door to Barracks Two flew open.

Klink walked inside, accompanied by Schultz and Langenscheidt. Kinch took one look at Klink's expression and knew they were in trouble. Gathering calm about him like a shield, he met the Luftwaffe officer near the woodstove.

"Kommandant. Something we can do for you, sir?"

Klink tucked his hands at his back and looked searchingly into Kinch's eyes.

"I am here to see Colonel Hogan." Maintaining eye contact with him, Klink said over his shoulder, to Schultz and Langenscheidt, "Once I enter Hogan's quarters, you will stand guard outside the door and allow no one to disturb us, unless you both wish to become targets at the Russian Front. Is that understood?"

Schultz nodded, quickly shifting his rifle from his shoulder to both hands to demonstrate he meant business. Langenscheidt swallowed hard and nodded, ready to provide Schultz with backup. Granite entered Klink's tone.

"Stand aside, Kinchloe."

Kinch shook his head. Left alone with Hogan, Klink might discover his senior Prisoner of War was wounded rather than ill.

LeBeau stepped to Kinch's side. "Colonel Hogan is sleeping."

Klink ignored him, his level gaze bored into Kinch.

"You have three seconds to move out of my way. If you are still blocking me at the end of that time, Schultz and Langenscheidt will escort you to the cooler, and I will give serious consideration to the matter of transferring you to another Luftstalag . . ." He sent a significant look around the barracks. "Along with anyone else who might try to interfere."

The tension in the room increased while Klink and Kinch engaged in a silent conflict of wills. As the third second ticked off, Kinch reluctantly shifted to one side, and Klink marched into Hogan's quarters, firmly closing the door behind him. Schultz and Langenscheidt immediately rooted themselves before the door, apology on their faces. The men slowly clustered around Kinch.

"Kinch . . . what do we do?" Carter's whispered, his blue eyes locked fearfully upon Hogan's door.

Kinch had only one answer to that.

"Pray."

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank you, everyone for your reviews! _

_And thank you, Marilyn!_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Klink went to one of the chairs beside the bed, stunned by the changes a day had wrought in Hogan's appearance. The eye visible to him appeared bruised and sunken, and stubble did little to hide the strikingly pale, almost translucent skin. Hogan's breathing was shallow and raspy, as if each breath were a struggle. Klink pushed aside his remorse at disturbing the ill man, the drive to know simply too strong to deny.

"Hogan," Klink called softly, reluctant to speak louder. "It is Kommandant Klink. Hogan . . . can you hear me?"

Hogan's head weakly moved, a soft groan emanating from his slightly parted lips. Klink edged forward on the chair, eagerly searched the gaunt profile.

"Hogan?"

There was no response and Klink slowly sat back, surprised at the level of his disappointment. He sat quietly for a few moments, then reached out and carefully touched the back of his hand to Hogan's forehead.

Hogan uttered another barely audible groan and shifted restlessly. His head flopped toward the shoulder closest to Klink, bringing the injured ear into the light. Klink studied the earlobe, brow furrowing with mounting suspicion. It looked painfully raw and stripped of skin – as if it had been burned rather than cut.

Burned? How could that have happened?

Klink glanced at the door, then reached for the blanket. As he grasped the material, Hogan's voice whispered through his head.

"_Are you sure you want to do that?"_

Klink stared in surprise at Hogan's slack features.

"_Are you sure?"_ came the whisper again, slyly insistent. "_Be very, very certain, Kommandant, because once you pull that blanket down, there's no going back. Knowledge carries more than power."_

Klink thought hard, weighing his choices. Did he really wish to know? _Did he?_

What if he discovered Hogan actually _was_ wounded? What would he do then?

Duty decreed he should throw Hogan in the cooler and place a call to Hochstetter, who would then descend upon Stalag 13 like a rapacious, black vulture and literally tear it apart looking for accomplices, weapons, and information. Hochstetter's triumph would be loud and limitless. And Hogan –if he survived Hochstetter's brand of interrogation - would be wrapped in irons and taken to Berlin, along with anyone else even remotely believed to be his accomplices. No doubt Hochstetter would make certain he would share Hogan's fate of torture and death by hanging or firing squad!

Klink's hand tightened into a fist in the blanket, his eyes locking upon Hogan's face.

An even worse fate would be if he were stripped of rank and sent directly to the Russian Front in disgrace, the ultimate laughingstock among his peers. His family, though not sent to the Front, would suffer, too. The name Klink would become synonymous with stupidity.

Klink winced.

On the other hand, he could simply replace the blanket and pretend – like Schultz – to know nothing.

Klink licked suddenly dry lips.

_That would be treason._

"_Exactly_," Hogan's voice sighed in his ear.

Klink nodded. Yes. Exactly. He pondered the blanket and thought of another choice.

_Don't look at all._

"_Ignorance **is** bliss, Herr Kommandant_." Hogan's cheery voice suddenly went flat. "_What's it going to be? Do you really want to know? Or not?"_

Klink drew a steadying breath . . . and decided that this was one of those times when he should listen to Hogan's advice. He released his grip on the blanket and sat back.

"Be well, Hogan."

Klink stood, squared his shoulders and walked to the door. Sweeping it open, he circled Schultz and Langenscheidt and went directly to Kinch, who waited, expressionless. Klink was not fooled. He had seen Kinch wear the very same look when he was assessing another fighter from across the ring.

"I did not wake him," Klink informed Kinch, peripherally aware that the attention of every man in the room was upon them. "Keep me informed of his condition."

Kinch nodded, careful to conceal his surprise and relief.

Gathering an equally relieved Schultz and Langenscheidt with sharp look, Klink returned to his quarters, leaving behind a large, stunned group of men.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Kinch . . . what?" Carter was so bewildered by what had just taken place that he could not string a coherent thought together. He was not the only one.

"We've been granted a miracle, is what," Newkirk muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He reached for his cigarettes and noticed his hand was trembling.

"Don't be so certain of that." Kinch turned to Olsen. "Tell Baker to monitor all of Klink's calls, and have him contact London and let them know we may need quick transport. He should contact Tiger, too, and let her know we might need her help if we have to get the colonel to safety."

O'Malley passed a hand over his head, his focus turning inward. "I'll be getting everything ready for his care should that time come."

Kinch looked to Parker next. "Keep Klink under constant surveillance. Get as many men as it takes. If he even looks like he's going anywhere, send someone to let me know."

Carter shifted nervously on his feet. "You think Klink knows and he just wants us to think he doesn't?"

Kinch nodded. "He might want us to think we're safe while he makes arrangements with Hochstetter. You know what to do."

"Plant charges in the tunnels," Carter answered with a sharp nod.

"And have everything with sensitive information gathered in one place in case we need to destroy it," Parker chimed in.

Kinch somberly regarded everyone. "Get the word out around camp. Be ready to move at a moment's notice."

LeBeau returned from checking on Hogan. "The colonel is still sleeping as Klink said. What do we tell him when he wakes?"

Kinch's mouth tightened into a frown. "Nothing for now. We can handle it. He needs time to regain his strength, and he won't get it if he knows what's going on. He'll figure it out soon enough anyway."

Newkirk blew a low whistle through his teeth. "I wouldn't want to be you when he does, mate. He'll be angrier than bob-tailed cat."

Kinch shrugged. Anger would not be Hogan's only emotion upon realizing his actions had placed his men and their operation in danger. "Right now, I'd welcome angry."

"I'd settle for awake," O'Malley sighed heavily.

Kinch turned for Hogan's quarters, wanting to personally check on his CO's condition. "So would I."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

He'd been hot before, but never this hot.

Hogan slowly turned in place, shielding his eyes against the glaring sun, looking for shade, for water. Cracked, barren ground stretched as far as he could see, only a few tumbleweeds and an occasional dust devil breaking the monotony. He looked overhead, hoping for clouds to break the heat. His tongue felt swollen, unwieldy. The skin on his arms felt drawn tight, like it would split at the slightest touch.

"_Come on, Colonel."_

Hogan whirled, stumbling in surprise. Kinch stood beside him, staring out at the desert landscape, unaffected by the furnace-like heat. He cast a sideways glance in Hogan's direction, as if waiting for him to say something.

_Kinch?_ Hogan panted, collapsing onto his knees. _What are you doing here?_ Kinch turned and knelt beside him, one hand outstretched.

"_Come with me." _

Hogan mutely shook his head, confused. _Where? _

A dust devil stirred to life on the horizon, quickly growing in strength and size as it bobbed and danced across the landscape. Kinch's head snapped up and he watched it grow nearer with apparent alarm. He looked back at Hogan, thrusting his hand closer.

"_Come on!"_

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Come on, Colonel," Kinch pleaded under his breath, watching Hogan pant for breath. Sweat rolled down Hogan's face, the fever climbing dangerously high. Kinch bowed his head, his hands clenching upon his knees.

What if O'Malley had been right? What if no matter what they said or did, it wasn't enough this time?

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: So sorry for the long delay between updates. Harvest is upon us and we've been experiencing equipment failures. _

_Big thanks to Marilyn Penner for all her help. As always, all mistakes are the property of the author, who owns nothing related to Hogan's Heroes, nor is making any profit from this or prior stories._

_This chapter contains some graphic and possibly disturbing imagery._

_Now on to the chapter. I hope you find it worth the wait._

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Eleven**

Kurt paused just inside his parents' home, soaking in the warmth and love that he always felt each time he walked through the door. He had a place of his own in Hammelburg, a small, two room flat. But it would never feel like 'home'.

"Kurt? Is that you?" his father called, walking out of the kitchen. Kurt hid his concern behind a smile of greeting. The lines in his father's face appeared to have deepened overnight.

They met in the middle of the room and embraced.

"How are you," Kurt murmured, resting his chin upon his father's shoulder.

"I am well, Meine Sohn, as is your Mutter."

Kurt pulled back, searching his father's eyes. "Where is she?"

"Sleeping." Josef went to his rocker and eased himself into it, wincing as stiff joints popped and cracked. Settling back with a sigh, he turned his head and looked out the window at the deepening twilight. "Karl was here, earlier. He wished to tell us of what he had done."

Kurt frowned, fearing the worst. "What did he do, Vater?"

Josef looked back at him, his expression grave. "He reported Marta's death to the Gestapo."

Kurt's legs went weak. His hand shot out, grabbed the fireplace mantle for support. "The Gestapo?"

"Yes." Josef set the rocker in motion, the slow creak and squeal of the old wood as familiar to Kurt as his own name. "Do not worry, Kurt. He did not mention me to them at all."

Kurt moved a chair closer to his father's rocker and sat down. "What did he tell them?"

"That he had been the one to find Marta after she slipped out of the house to look for Mozart."

Kurt had completely forgotten about the little dog. He looked around the room, but saw no sign of him.

"He is with your Mutter," Josef said with a wan smile. "He has not left her side since we returned home. They seem to be a comfort to each other."

Kurt was glad for that, but did not wish to talk of Mozart. "Continue, Vater, bitte."

Josef's gaze went distant, the rocker slowing slightly. "Karl told Major Hochstetter that he had been searching for Marta when he heard shots. He found Marta and the three soldiers, all dead."

"Hochstetter believed him?"

"Karl thought so, yes. Hochstetter even offered his sympathy, then asked if Karl had seen anyone else. Karl explained finding his daughter's body had put him in a state of shock. He noticed little else after that."

Kurt nodded slowly, relieved and grateful to Karl.

Josef's expression hardened. "The Gestapo kept Marta's body, Kurt. Karl and Margaret can not even lay her to rest."

"It is procedure, Vater," Kurt murmured, the words bitter in his mouth. He winced, envisioning the Gestapo treating the little girl's body as if it were evidence. "Once the Gestapo have completed their examination, they will release Marta to Karl and Margaret."

Josef shook his head, loosely clasped his hands upon his lap. "So much pain. So much," he whispered.

Kurt sighed, feeling exhaustion poised to strike. Without thinking, he closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose with a forefinger.

"How long has it been since you slept?" Josef asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

Berating himself for adding to his father's burden, Kurt got to his feet and went to the window. "Do not worry about me, Vater. I am quite used to going without sleep."

"It is every parent's right to worry about their children," Josef countered, a smile in his voice. A long pause followed, and then Kurt heard his father leave the rocker and approach him. Gentle, callused hands came to rest upon his shoulders, offering support and comfort.

"You are going to check on Robert again?"

Kurt nodded. His father's hands massaged his shoulders, working to release the tension knotting them.

"You were angry when you left last night," Josef prodded.

"Very angry," Kurt corrected with a thin smile. His father's silence indicated his willingness to listen. But Kurt heard the mantle clock's soft chimes, and knew he would have to hurry to make it to Stalag 13 and back before daybreak.

He turned to face his father. "But now, I am only afraid." His chin lifted, his voice gaining strength with the force of his resolve. "Once Robert is better, I intend to ask that he arrange for you and Mutter to be taken to safety. Out of Germany."

Josef gazed at him in surprise. "We would not leave you or Robert. Our place is here, with you both and with the Underground."

"I agree."

Romie left the bedroom - Mozart at her feet - and made her way to stand beside Josef. Her face was pale, but her eyes were alive with love and determination as she met Kurt's gaze. She took his hand, curling her fingers to squeeze it tightly.

"We are staying."

"Mutter--" Kurt stayed his protest as she gave him a severe look. He nevertheless caught the slight twitch of her lips, telling him she was fighting hard not to smile.

"Do not argue with your Mutter, Kind."

He snorted with laughter. She had not used that reprimand since he was sixteen. Josef chuckled as well and putting an arm around her waist, pulled her close.

"The matter is settled, then, Kurt." His smile faded. "Give Robert our love when you see him."

Tears welled in Romie's eyes. "He needs you now - your love and understanding as much as your medical skills."

"He has them," Kurt promised fervently, gathering them close, cherishing even this brief time together. He had been shown yet again how short life could be, and how quickly loved ones could be lost without warning.

Mozart looked up at them, whining softly, one paw lifting into the air. Kurt broke the embrace with his parents and glanced down at the little dog. The soft, brown eyes held a plea that he could not ignore. He bent down and scooped Mozart into his arms, rubbed his cheek against the soft black and white coat. Mozart's tongue whipped out, swiping a sloppy kiss across his face. Kurt let out a watery chuckle and held him close, picturing Marta. She was beyond his help now.

But Robert was not.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"_Try, Colonel! You've got to try!"_

Hogan dragged his head up and somehow found the strength to reach for Kinch. Their hands locked, a high-pitched chortle ringing out. The flesh over Kinch's skull rippled and crawled, changing color and shape until Hogan found himself staring into Major Wolfgang Hochstetter's leering, black eyes.

Hochstetter's grip tightened to painful extremes. His fingers stretched like taffy around their joined hands, coiled up Hogan's arm and around his shoulders, then slithered greedily down his torso and legs. Only Hogan's neck and head remained free of the grotesque restraints.

The hot, fleshy coils pulsed and constricted, exerting pressure that snapped his ribs and crushed his lungs to pulp. Blood flooded Hogan's throat, poured out his mouth and nose in thick, vermillion streams. Hochstetter's hideously distorted face loomed over him; strident laughter drowning out Hogan's wheezing attempts to breathe.

"_It was you! You were responsible!"_

Hogan choked and writhed within the merciless coils, dizzy from lack of oxygen. Dancing, black spots obscured his vision, Hochstetter's fetid breath washed over his face.

"_It was you!"_

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch jumped as a loud gasp sounded from the bed. Hogan twisted and writhed as if fighting something, his breathing loud and hoarse. Kinch leaned forward, resting his hand upon Hogan's chest, holding him down.

"It's all right, Colonel."

There was a knock at the door and Lyons poked his head into the room. "Sir--"

"Get O'Malley!"

The medic appeared within seconds, looking like a man torn from sleep. He bent over the bed, bumping shoulders with Kinch. The other men crowded into the room behind them, jostling to see what was happening.

"No . . . her," Hogan rasped, his eyes barely open and staring. His struggling intensified, his strength surprising O'Malley and Kinch.

"Looks like you got your wish, Ben," Newkirk said quietly, watching their fight to keep Hogan still. "He's awake."

"This is'na awake," O'Malley bit out through clenched teeth, pressing Hogan's shoulders to the bed. "This is delirious! Colonel," he pleaded, staring into eyes glazed with confusion. "Sir, you'll hurt yourself if you keep this up. Kinch, watch he doesn't kick you."

"What can we do?" LeBeau asked, feeling helpless.

"Just stay out of the way!" Kinch shot back, leaning his full weight upon Hogan's thighs. The lower bed frame was not meant to hold the weight of three men. The over-stressed wood groaned, warning of a possible collapse.

Hogan suddenly quit fighting them. He lay still, his breath coming in small gasps, his body quivering with fever.

"Thank heaven," O'Malley breathed. He reached out, tilting Hogan's head to a more comfortable position. Hogan did not react to the touch at all.

"What happened?" whispered LeBeau, hesitantly approaching the bed. Carter was right behind him, white as a ghost.

O'Malley frowned at the fresh blood spotting the bandages at Hogan's shoulder. "It's the fever. It's getting dangerously high. It keeps climbing and he could have seizures."

"Seizures?" Carter's voice cracked with fear.

Lyons raised his hand from the doorway. "Sir?"

"Or worse," O'Malley sighed, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

Newkirk pushed a hand into his hair, his eyes locked upon Hogan. "Worse as in how?"

"Sir?" Lyons called again, waving his hand higher in the air.

"Brain damage," Kinch whispered, as though to himself.

Hogan shifted, his lips moving. Bracing his hands on either side of Hogan's body, O'Malley leaned close, tilting his ear toward Hogan's mouth. He looked up at Kinch a few seconds later.

"All I could make out was something about Hochstetter."

Lyons pushed through the men gathered around the bed. "How'd he know about Hochstetter?"

Kinch's head snapped toward him. "What are you talking about?"

Lyons looked startled at the sharp question, but recovered quickly. "Hochstetter called Klink this morning and asked about the colonel. Baker sent me to tell you earlier, but you were asleep and you looked like you could use it, so I decided to wait until you were awake."

Newkirk leaned toward Carter. "As he been hanging much with you, Andrew?" Carter frowned, clearly nonplussed by the question.

"That was thoughtful of you, Lyons," Kinch said, eyes hard with suppressed anger. "But when Baker says to deliver a message, he means now, not when you think it appropriate."

"Yes, sir," Lyons acknowledged with a crisp nod. "Sorry, sir."

Kinch sighed, his anger already gone. Briefly wondering why Lyons still insisted on calling him 'sir', he turned to O'Malley. The medic was sponging Hogan's face with one hand, while fussing with the blanket with the other.

"Ben? How's he doing?"

O'Malley threw a quick glance in his direction. "Quiet for now, but this fever's a worry, that's for sure. LeBeau, get that fresh bucket of well water and help me wipe him down again."

Kinch motioned the rest of the men out to give O'Malley and LeBeau quiet and room to work. After casting another worried glance at Hogan, he left as well.

Lyons was waiting for him near the table, standing easy in parade rest. Kinch accepted a cup of coffee from Newkirk and headed that way. For once, he was glad Newkirk brewed coffee strong enough to peel paint. He needed it, since the few hours of sleep he had managed had done little for his exhaustion. Taking a careful sip of the hot liquid and wincing at the bitterness, he directed his attention back to Lyons.

"Give me the rest of the message."

Lyons nodded once. "Klink told Hochstetter the colonel had been in his office after morning roll call. Hochstetter hung up on him right after."

Kinch's fingers tightened on the tin cup's handle. "When was this? Exactly?"

"Just before lunch."

"Why would Klink lie for the colonel?" Olsen wondered, staring at the floor, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

"And to Hochstetter, to boot?" Newkirk added, eyebrows arched in surprise. "That'd take backbone, which we all know ol' Iron Pants doesn't have."

Carter suddenly dropped onto one of the benches at the table, as if his legs could no longer hold him. "Klink lies to Hochstetter, then he comes to see Colonel Hogan, but makes sure he sees him alone."

Braveheart rolled over in his bunk, propped his head on his hand. "And when he comes out again, he acts like nothing's wrong."

Carter's round eyes rolled toward Kinch. "Are you _sure_ he hasn't figured everything out?"

"Klink?" Olsen laughed, dark eyes dancing. "No way."

Lyons shifted his weight, fingers flexing behind his back. "Tivoli and Benson said Klink did his usual nothing all day, and according to Baker, he didn't make any calls to anyone, either."

Kinch considered the coffee in his cup, then took a healthy gulp. "I have no idea why Klink would lie to Hochstetter, but I don't think it was because he's on to our operation." He paused, lips pressed into a hard line, thoughts turning inward as he stared into the distance. "Still, he was acting strange, even for him."

"Maybe he did it just because he likes the colonel," Olsen shrugged, still chuckling. He laughed outright again when incredulous stares were directed his way.

Lyons' broad smile faded and he softly cleared his throat. "Sarge? Baker got another message a little while ago. Metzger's coming back to check on the colonel sometime tonight."

"He better have his head screwed on straight this time."

All eyes turned to Paxton. He sat on the edge of his bunk, forearms upon his thighs, lantern jaw set in a hard line. "The colonel doesn't need anyone standing in judgment of him."

Olsen sauntered over to the table. There was no trace of humor in his expression now. "He's right, you know. The last thing Colonel Hogan needs is to wake up and see the doc glaring down at him."

Carter threw a quick, pleading look around the room. "Kurt wouldn't do that. Even if he _is_ angry at the colonel, he won't let him see it."

Paxton surged to his feet and stalked to the table. "You sure about that? His feelings seemed pretty plain when he left here."

Braveheart smoothly sat up on his bunk, his black eyes intent and locked upon Kinch, waiting for direction.

Kinch held his silence and stayed watchful, ready to step in if tempers got too heated. For the moment at least, he thought it best to let everyone air their feelings. Like his mama said, it was better to lift the lid off a simmering kettle every now and then, rather than let it boil over and cause a mess.

Carter met Paxton's steely-eyed glare head on. "I tell you, he wouldn't show it to the colonel. Especially now, when the colonel needs all the support we can give him."

Paxton's mouth tightened. "Well _I _still say he should make himself scarce after he's done checking on the colonel. We can take care of him just fine, and we won't be cramming our feelings down his throat doing it, either."

Kinch bowed his head with a sigh. How many in camp felt the same way?

Newkirk slapped a palm down on the table. "Look, mates. Give the doc a break. He was still reeling when he was here last time. And even so, he did right by the colonel, didn't he? He came soon as he heard the news, got the bullet out, helped steady poor old Ben's nerves and made certain we knew what to do for the colonel while he was gone." He paused, his gaze traveling around the room. "He's had a shocking loss and deserves our understanding, too."

Kinch was about to say his own piece when the bunk entrance rattled open and Kurt climbed the ladder into the barracks. One look at his face and Kinch knew their voices had carried into the tunnel. _How long were you down there, Doc?_ he wondered, watching Kurt close the entrance. The room had gone very quiet, the men's expressions ranging from embarrassment and guilt to thinly veiled hostility.

Kurt turned toward the room and nodded in greeting. "Gentlemen."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Shhh, Colonel. You're safe. Hochstetter's no' here."

"It is just us, _colonel_."

Icy fingers skimmed over his face, down his neck and chest, over his arms and around his sides. He shivered, alternately burning and freezing. Each touch was torture, each sound bringing a curl of nausea.

His groan scraped an already raw throat. The icy fingers returned, gently wrapped around his hand. There were more sounds, oddly warped, unrecognizable. Stomach roiling, he concentrated, but quickly gave up trying to understand. It hurt too much and he was just too tired.

He drifted in the blazing heat for a time, vaguely aware of being touched and moved, of more sounds, still badly garbled.

Something touched his lips, pressing insistently. Cool water trickled over his tongue and down his sore throat. He swallowed reflexively once, twice, then turned his head away as the water brought another surge of nausea.

_Leave me alone. Why can't you just leave me alone?_

He was so tired.

When would it end?

* * *

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

_Sorry for the long time between updates!_

_This chapter is unbetaed._

* * *

"Boy, are we glad to see you, Doc!"

"It's good to be seen, Carter." The wry tilt to Kurt's mouth faded as he glanced toward Hogan's quarters.

"He's not good." Kinch set his empty cup upon the table and put his hands in his pockets, clenching them tightly. "The fever's higher. O'Malley's worried about seizures."

"Is he still vomiting?"

"Some," Newkirk answered, sitting up on his bunk. "But not nearly as much as before."

"He's chilled," Olsen called out.

"And delirious," Carter added. Kurt said nothing, only went to the table and set his bag down.

"What are you thinking?" Kinch demanded quietly.

"There is a chance the infection has developed into blood poisoning."

"Blood poisoning?" Newkirk echoed, voice cracking.

"I had an aunt die from blood poisoning." Olsen said, drawing closer to the table. "One of her cats scratched her. It got infected and next thing we know, we're putting her in the ground."

"Gosh, thanks for the pretty picture," Paxton growled, glaring at him from the shadows.

"She _died_?" Carter's eyes were round, filled with fear for Hogan.

"Always said cats were nothing but trouble," Braveheart muttered darkly, staring into space.

Kurt's expression had turned faintly bemused. "Blood poisoning can result from many things. Wounds such as the colonel's, burns--"

"Doc," Kinch interrupted, giving him a pained smile. "Could we skip the lecture?"

"Certainly. We are getting ahead of ourselves, anyway. The fever, sickness and chills may simply be the colonel's body fighting the infection. I will have a better grasp of his condition once I see him." He gestured to Hogan's quarters, his tone suddenly hesitant. "May I see him?"

"Of course." Kinch shot a glance around the room, warning everyone to keep their comments and opinions to themselves.

Kurt strode across the silent room to Hogan's quarters. At the doorway, he paused, took a deep breath and turned back, startling the men who had been following him.

"Please wait here. The room is much too small to contain you all and I would like some privacy while I check the colonel's condition." He raised a hand, palm toward them before they could protest. "Please," he repeated softly, blue eyes imploring them for understanding.

"Of course. We'll wait here." Kinch watched him enter the room. _Bring us some good news._

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Hey, Doc," O'Malley greeted as Kurt closed the door. "Good to see you. We're not making any headway on this fever."

Kurt walked to the bed, patting LeBeau on the back as the Frenchman moved to give him room. "You both look as if you would benefit from a break. Why don't you step outside for some coffee while I check the colonel?"

O'Malley and LeBeau shared a glance, both men picking up on Kurt's unspoken request to be alone with his friend. O'Malley straightened, hands going to the small of his back to massage cramped muscles.

"A bit of coffee sounds good."

LeBeau walked with him to the door, saying sotto vocé, "As long as it is not Newkirk's coffee."

Only after they had left the room did Kurt actually look at Hogan.

"Robert," he whispered, taking the chair O'Malley had deserted. Hogan lay motionless on his back, blankets pulled to his chin, looking pallid and drained of vitality.

Kurt slid the blankets down and after warming the bell of his stethoscope in his hand, placed it over Hogan's heart. The beat was faster than he would have liked. After listening for a short time, he repositioned the bell, checking lung sounds.

Hogan suddenly gasped and shuddered. Kurt let his stethoscope fall and clasped his friend's cool hand.

"Shhh. It is just me."

Rather than soothe, his touch seemed to intensify Hogan's agitation. Kurt leaned closer, puzzled by the reaction.

"What is it?"

Hogan's eyes snapped open and locked on him, freezing him in place. Hogan's lips moved but no sound came forth. Kurt swallowed, the last traces of professional detachment completely evaporating.

"Robert . . . what are you trying to tell me?"

Hogan groaned, eyelids flickering, as if fighting to stay conscious. Kurt felt weak pressure on his hand and returned it.

"Do not worry about anything. Just concentrate on yourself for once, yes? Give your body time to heal. Your men are taking care of everything."

Hogan's raspy breathing quickened and Kurt felt the pressure on his hand increase. The grip, weak as a child's, tore at his heart.

"Mutter and Vater are safe. They send their love and wish they could be here with you."

Hogan's eyes opened to glassy slits, filled with grief and remorse. Kurt blinked, suddenly understanding. He spoke firmly, his gaze boring into Hogan's.

"It was an accident, Robert. _An accident_."

Moisture welled in Hogan's eyes. A single tear slipped free, trickled down his temple. Kurt bowed his head, the suffering difficult to witness.

"Robert . . ." he began, looking up again. His words died in his throat. Hogan was no longer conscious. Huffing out another ragged breath, Kurt reached out, gently wiped away all traces of the tear. He leaned down, quietly said into Hogan's ear the words he so badly wanted his friend to hear.

"We forgive you."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch glanced at his watch and arched an eyebrow in surprise. Only ten minutes had passed, but it felt much longer than that. A glance around the room showed the other men probably felt the same. His head snapped toward Hogan's quarters as the door opened.

"Just one more moment, bitte." Kurt shuffled to the common room table and sat down, tired from going almost non-stop since the night before. He caught Kinch studying him with concern and offered up a faint smile.

"My . . . how do you say it? Dogs are yelping?"

"Barking," Kinch corrected automatically. "Your dogs are barking."

The corner of Kurt's mouth twitched. "More like howling."

Paxton shot to his feet with an inarticulate noise. "So how's the colonel? Is he getting better?"

"The c_olonel_ seems much quieter," said LeBeau, glancing into Hogan's quarters. He stood beside O'Malley in the doorway, where they could see Hogan as well as hear Kurt.

Newkirk put a foot up on the bench opposite Kurt and rested his forearms on his knee. "Is that good or bad?"

"Here," Kinch said, setting a cup of coffee before the doctor. "You look like you need this."

Kurt gratefully took the warm mug between his hands, stared down at the steaming liquid.

"The colonel is resting quietly at the moment. He is very weak, but his heart sounds good and his lungs are clear. The wounds no longer show signs of infection and the vomiting has stopped for the most part."

O'Malley glanced in his direction. "And the fever?"

Kurt's bowed shoulders briefly lifted in a shrug. "Fevers often climb before breaking. That is probably the case here, considering the lack of infection in the wounds."

Smiles erupted around the room; Carter's being one of the brightest.

"That's great!"

Kurt sipped his coffee. After a few moments, the men noticed his subdued demeanor and one by one they fell silent. Olsen leaned toward him.

"That is great, right?"

"Yes." Kurt gulped the last of his coffee, stood and headed for the entrance. Just before disappearing below, he turned to them, lips curved in a thin smile.

"Time heals all. All the colonel needs now is a little more of it."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

_It was an accident_.

Hogan stared down at the swan at his feet. The fragile body was broken, the lustrous black eyes now opaque in death. He knelt, stroked his hands over its feathers.

_I'm sorry_, he whispered to it. But the swan could no longer hear him.

* * *

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading._


	13. Chapter 13

_Thank you for your reviews!_

_And many thanks to my wonderful beta, Marilyn._

* * *

Muffled sounds filtered through layers of blackness. Someone coughed. He heard voices in the distance, snatches of conversation too far away to be understood. 

He sighed softly and on the next breath was flooded with a cascade of scents. Coffee. The faint hint of cigarette smoke. An even fainter one of cologne. Wood smoke. The sour smells of sweat and sickness.

A boot scraped across the floor. Wood creaked as someone shifted position in a chair, followed by the soft clearing of a throat.

He drifted for awhile after that, until he heard light footsteps approaching.

"Kinch?" Carter's voice.

"Shhh."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Just keep your voice down."

"Still sleeping?"

"Yeah. Best thing for him now. What do you need?"

"It's about the bombs for the fuel depot."

He heard a quick creak of wood and the scuffle and scratch of leather sliding across grit-covered boards, as if Kinch had suddenly sat up.

"Not here."

_Fuel depot?_ He fought to push the fog from his mind.

"Let's take this into the other room."

"Should we just leave him alone?"

"We're not going that far, Carter."

Two pairs of footsteps receded, followed by the barely discernible swish and thump of the door being pulled shut.

Hogan forced his eyelids apart and turned his head. After several seconds of blinking dry, scratchy eyes, the room's fuzzy details swam into focus.

Early morning sunlight slanted across the floor. A bucket and some rags sat near the foot of the bed, along with what looked like a bottle of some kind. The alcohol, maybe? Kinch's chair sat only a few feet away. A book lay cover down on the seat. A narrow strip of paper poked out of the pages, marking his place. It looked like he was about halfway through it.

Hogan shifted his focus back to the foot of the bed. A blanket was folded neatly beside his feet. He considered it for a long moment, then looked toward the door. It was still closed. From the other side came the low murmur of voices.

His stomach growled. He ignored it, not hungry in the least.

A voice, sweet and soft echoed in his mind. His vision clouded over.

"_Would you show me how to make the pretty swan of paper?"_

"_It would be my pleasure."_

A shudder traveled the length of his weakened body. He neither heard nor saw the door open.

"Colonel?"

Hogan slowly turned his head. Kinch was crouched beside the bed, a broad smile of relief on his face. Within seconds, a wall of men flanked him, wearing matching smiles.

"It's good to see you finally awake, sir."

Hogan licked his lips, tried to speak. Nothing came out. He saw O'Malley hand Kinch a cup of water and felt someone carefully lift his head from behind. Kinch put the cup to his lips. He sipped the water, nodded to show he'd had enough.

"Better?"

"Yes." Even after the water, his voice was gravelly from disuse. He swallowed, cleared his throat.

"Are you in any pain, Colonel?" O'Malley asked, gazing at him expectantly.

Hogan closed his eyes again, assessing himself. He could feel tight areas of healing skin and flesh, remembered how he had gotten wounded. He cracked his eyes open, feeling weaker and more tired by the moment.

"No."

"Sir . . ." Kinch paused. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

"_Would you show me . . .?"_

Hogan sighed, let his eyes fall shut again. "Yes."

Silence fell over the room. Hogan briefly thought of the water and decided he didn't want to bother with it.

"How long has it been?" he asked, starting to fade out again. There was a long pause and then Kinch answered from what sounded like a great distance.

"The rendezvous with Orion was a week ago. You've been asleep since your fever broke four days ago."

_A week? She's buried by now._

And on that thought, he faded out completely.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

The barracks door flew open and Olsen stuck his head inside, flushed and out of breath.

"Kinch!" he called in a loud stage whisper, frantically beckoning.

Kinch threw his book down on his bunk and jumped to his feet, glancing at LeBeau and O'Malley in Hogan's quarters. They signaled all was okay. Kinch bolted out the door after Olsen; Carter, Newkirk and Braveheart close behind them. Olsen led them at a dead run around the north end of Barracks Two. Kinch could see men running ahead and heard them yelling to each other. Whistles were blowing, dogs were barking and over it all, he heard Schultz's panicked yells.

They rounded the west corner of the rec hall and came upon the source of the furor. A crowd of men had gathered, hooting, shouting, catcalling and waving fists. Guards were wading through them, pushing, yelling and brandishing their weapons, dogs nipping at the prisoners' heels, trousers and coats. Kinch caught a glimpse of Schultz in the midst of it, red-faced and wild-eyed. His helmet was missing, his hair in total disarray.

A gunshot went off just as Kinch aimed himself at the center of the chaos. All movement ceased, all yelling stopped. Even the dogs went quiet.

"What is the meaning of this?" Klink shouted, pistol still aloft. He strode toward them, his eyes searching the crowd. "Schultz!"

Slowly, the prisoners shifted, the crowd parted and Schultz came wading out like a barrel-bellied German version of Moses. He puffed and panted up to Klink, shooting Kinch a pleading look as he passed him. Kinch only shook his head and threw a glance at Olsen, who was peering back into the crowd. Schultz stopped before Klink, snapping off a salute.

"Herr Kommandant, there was a fight –"

Klink's eyes narrowed. "You are out of uniform."

Schultz suddenly registered the breeze blowing over his bare head. He reached up, patted nothing but hair and gave Klink a sheepish grin. Klink let out a low sound of frustration, jerked his head up, and looked beyond Schultz at the crowd of prisoners.

"Give him his helmet this instant!"

Grins flashed, along with a few chuckles, guffaws and mild catcalls. The helmet magically appeared. Jones held it out, wearing a mischievous smile. Kinch took the helmet from him and carried it to Schultz.

"Here you are, Schultzie."

"Danke." Schultz donned the helmet and spun back to Klink, a smile pasted on his florid face. Klink glowered at him, silently fuming. Schultz's smile fled and he started rattling off his version of what had happened.

"Two of the prisoners started fighting Herr Kommandant. And then two became four, four became eight, eight became--"

"Yes, yes! Point out the two prisoners who incited this . . ." Klink made a sweeping motion with his arm toward the now silent crowd of men. ". . . outrage."

Schultz faced the prisoners. They gazed back at him, stonefaced. He moved closer, went up on tiptoes to see into the crowd, swayed from side to side, shielded his eyes and rocked forward . . .

Klink rolled his eyes, heaved a very long, very loud sigh. "Never mind, Schultz!" He leveled an electric blue stare upon Kinch. "Sergeant, in light of Colonel Hogan's absence due to his illness, I hold you personally responsible for this disrespectful behavior. Do you have anything to say?"

Kinch couldn't think of anything.

Klink's lips pressed into a hard line. "Very well." He looked back to the crowd, gaze raking back and forth across the sea of faces. "For the next three weeks, every prisoner will be penalized two sheets of writing paper and one slice of bread."

A groan went up, quickly stifled by Kinch's hard glare. Klink nodded approval and went on.

"All recreation privileges are canceled for a month."

That threatened to cause an all-out rebellion. The men yelled scathing comments, some moving as if to approach Klink. Kinch, with one mid-chest slice of his hand, silenced them, but their furious stares at Klink continued.

"Dismissed," Klink barked. The guards and their dogs went back to their posts and the crowd slowly dispersed, grumbling their displeasure. Kinch raised his hand above his head, crooking his fingers in a 'come-here' motion while simultaneously blowing a shrill whistle. The men fell in around him.

Kinch braced his hands on his hips and slowly turned in place. "All right, who started it?"

Heads lowered, eyes cut back and forth between men, feet shuffled. Kinch waited, knowing he could count on them to do the right thing. They didn't disappoint him. Without a sound, Tivoli stepped forth, head up, expression blank. Kinch glanced at him, then let his gaze return to the other men. Carstairs, one of the newest men in camp, came forward to stand beside Tivoli. Neither man looked at the other.

Kinch assessed the damage. The right side of Tivoli's swarthy jaw bore a swelling, bloody scrape. Carstairs had clearly fared worse. Kinch knew a broken nose when he saw it. Besides that painful injury, the smaller man had a badly split lip, and a right eye that had already ballooned shut. Kinch glanced from one man to the other.

"Start talking."

Tivoli's jaw worked, the muscles in his neck bulging as he flexed his back and shoulders. Carstairs cleared his throat, stared straight ahead as best he could with one eye. Kinch waited, silently placing a bet with himself that Tivoli would talk first.

"He shouldn't have said it," Tivoli snarled, black eyes hard and cold.

Bet won.

"He needs to keep his ugly mouth shut!" Tivoli whipped his head around to glare daggers at Carstairs. "Lei lo non onora! Bastardo!" He spat in the dirt at Carstairs feet. Confusion, then fury passed over Carstairs' battered face. He clearly had no idea what the first part meant, only the second, and that was enough provocation for him.

"Why you greasy--" Carstairs whirled on Tivoli, fists balling before him. Out of the corner of his eye, Kinch saw Benson appear out of the crowd, flanked by Maddux and Broughton.

"Hold it!" Kinch let his anger show in the look he turned on Tivoli and Carstairs. Their backs straightened, their eyes snapped front and center. Kinch studied the Italian, a man known to have a notoriously short fuse, but also honor, loyalty and a strong sense of justice.

"Explain. This time stick to English." Tivoli looked straight at him, speaking as if they were alone.

"A bunch of us were just shooting the breeze and this . . . _guy_," he hooked a thumb at Carstairs. "Came up and started spouting off crap about the colonel and how he was stupid for not doing a perimeter sweep that night to see no one was around and how _he_ wouldn't have made that mistake." Tivoli's voice shook with rage.

The longer Tivoli had talked the tenser Newkirk, Carter, Braveheart and Olsen had gotten. Kinch glanced their way, silently warning them not to make the situation worse. Then he warned himself. All he knew about Carstairs was that he was from Los Angeles, and that he had cleared every point on their security checklist just days before Hogan's fateful birthday. And that he apparently had a very high opinion of himself.

"You said those things?" Kinch asked, hanging on to an even tone.

Carstairs squirmed in place, avoiding eye contact with Kinch. His answer carried a hint of defensiveness.

"In so many words."

Kinch's tone went cold. "Talk like that always leads to trouble, Corporal. That's why we don't tolerate it around here."

"He threw the first punch," Carstairs squawked, stabbing a finger at Tivoli. The Italian's lip curled in disgust.

"Only after you refused to shut your trap!"

"Both of you shut your traps," Kinch snapped. His glare shifted back and forth between them before settling upon Carstairs. "It seems you're missing the point. If you hadn't been spouting off in the first place, Tivoli wouldn't have rearranged your face, there wouldn't have been a fight, the guards wouldn't have gotten involved, and Klink wouldn't have taken away our privileges. Now do you understand why we don't tolerate loose talk?"

Carstairs responded with a jerky nod that jarred his broken nose. He winced, cupped a hand over it.

Kinch's tone reached glacial proportions. "That's good. Otherwise I'd have to find some other way of showing you the error of your ways."

"And just in case you didn't know," Newkirk said, directing a decidedly unfriendly grin at Carstairs, "Kinch, here, is a Gold Gloves Champion."

Carstairs' working eye went wide above his cupped hand. His Adams apple bobbed in a convulsive swallow.

Kinch tipped his head, raked a thoughtful glance over him from head to toe. "You're not in my weight class, but then I'm not choosy in picking sparring partners."

Benson came forward, clasped Tivoli by the shoulder. "Neither is this guy."

"He's a Gold Gloves Champ, too, by the way," Olsen said in a conversational aside to Carstairs, adding with a shrug, "Middle-weight."

Kinch's hard gaze traveled over the crowd. "That goes for everyone." The men rumbled acknowledgement. He stifled a sigh. Everyone was entitled to their opinion. He just didn't like them spreading it around, churning already troubled waters.

Carter sadly considered Carstairs, shook his head and walked away. Newkirk glanced at the bloodied man and with a haughty sniff, turned and went after his friend. The crowd thinned until only Kinch, Tivoli and Carstairs remained. Kinch glanced back and forth between them.

"Next time, do your fighting in the ring."

A bloodthirsty gleam appeared in Tivoli's eyes and he swiveled to face his opponent. Carstairs blinked, pulled himself to his full height of five foot, six and used his one working eye to glare back at him.

Kinch wagged his head toward Carstairs' barracks. "Get that nose and eye taken care of, and try not to sneeze."

The very thought of sneezing with a broken nose made Carstairs wince. He walked away, head down, one hand cradled protectively over his nose.

Kinch turned and met Tivoli's eyes. The Italian clenched a fist before him, rage returning to his voice.

"I should've knocked every one of his teeth down his throat!"

Kinch's hand shot out, grabbing Tivoli by the hair at the back of his head. He stared into the seething black eyes.

"Calm down."

Tivoli took a deep breath, nodded as much as Kinch's grip allowed.

Kinch released him and Tivoli straightened. "You know I don't normally condone fighting outside the ring, Tivoli . . ." he felt a smile burst forth. "but I'll make an exception in this case."

Tivoli sheepishly rubbed his sore jaw. "I was so mad I couldn't see straight, Sarge. That's how he got in a lucky shot." He looked up at Kinch, his grin turning wolfish. "The _only_ one."

Without any warning, Kinch feinted to the left, dodged right, and sent an open fist whipping toward Tivoli's jaw. The Italian pivoted on the balls of his feet, batting the blow away with his forearm. Kinch came at him again, loosing a flurry of quick jabs. Tivoli twisted and blocked again, reciprocating with a rapid-fire volley of punches that Kinch easily parried. They lowered their arms and stepped back at the same moment, regarding each other with ear-to-ear grins.

"Better," Kinch chuckled, bumping a fist against Tivoli's. "But that right hook could still be crisper."

Tivoli threw back his head and laughed, hands braced upon his hips.

The sound washed over Kinch like a balm. Laughter had been in short supply ever since . . . His smile faded. Tivoli immediately sensed the change in mood. His gaze fell to the ground between their feet, compassion softening his voice.

"I heard he finally woke up. How is he?"

Kinch hid a smile. As usual, the camp grapevine had worked at lightning speed. Hogan had only awakened an hour before. He guarded his CO's privacy as much as his own, and for that reason said very little in response to Tivoli's query.

"His wounds are healing."

Tivoli glanced up from beneath black brows. "And the inside ones?"

Kinch merely shrugged. A comfortable silence fell over them for a minute and then he quietly asked, " 'Lei lo non onora' ?"

Thunderclouds formed on Tivoli's brow. "Roughly translated it means, 'You dishonor him'. The other means--"

"I got that one," Kinch interrupted, mouth relaxing into a grin. He hitched his thumb in the direction of Barracks Nine. "Get that scrape cleaned before it gets infected."

Tivoli whipped off a salute and started away at brisk walk. Kinch cupped a hand to his mouth, called after him, "And keep that temper in check!"

"Got it, Sarge!" floated back to him.

"And stay away from Carstairs!"

"I'll think about it, Sarge!"

Kinch rolled his eyes, turned and headed back to his own barracks. Maybe Hogan would be awake again.

**

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**

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!_


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks to Marilyn Penner, my patient beta and sounding board._

_Thank you, too, to everyone who has reviewed._

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Hogan peeled his crusty eyelids apart, squinting and blinking as the light hit his eyes.

O'Malley leaned into view. "Good to have you with us again, sir."

"Do you need anything, _colonel_? Some water? Perhaps some soup?"

Hogan vaguely remembered sipping warm broth, then promptly bringing it back up again. His stomach clenched, warning it still wasn't in the mood for food.

"Nothing right now, LeBeau."

Disappointment flashed in LeBeau's eyes, but he nodded and smiled, and went about rearranging the blanket around Hogan's feet.

The door to Hogan's quarters opened and Kinch peeked inside. Hogan forced his hand a full inch off the blanket and curled his fingers, weakly beckoning to him.

"Not too long," O'Malley whispered to Kinch as he and LeBeau left the room.

Kinch settled on the chair beside the bed, regarded Hogan with a compassionate expression. "You look . . . alive, at least."

"That good, huh?" Hogan breathed, making an unsuccessful attempt at their normal banter. His heart just wasn't in it.

Kinch's voice softened. "It's good to actually see life in your eyes again."

"_You have nice eyes,"_ Marta whispered in Hogan's mind. His gut churned; his throat suddenly dry as the Sahara.

Kinch sensed his distress and leaned forward, seeking to make eye contact. "Colonel? Are you going to be sick?"

Hogan shook his head, gritted his teeth as the room pin-wheeled. Nausea curled in the pit of his stomach and sweat broke upon his forehead.

"Maybe I should come back later." Kinch made to rise, pausing when Hogan lifted his hand.

"Don't . . . leave." The very effort of speaking left Hogan drained.

Kinch sat back, letting his hands rest upon his thighs.

Hogan peered up at him. "Was there . . . a gunshot?"

"Yeah," Kinch sighed. "That was Klink firing into the air."

Hogan blinked. Klink rarely pulled his firearm and then it was usually only for show.

"A few of the guys had a slight difference of opinion that escalated into a fight. Klink revoked some privileges, but didn't throw anyone into the cooler." Kinch offered a slight shrug in response to Hogan's questioning look. "The guys were just letting off some steam."

_Right._ Hogan thought Kinch's tone had been just a little too casual. He was about to point that out when a fit of coughing stole his breath. Pain spiked in his side and his vision whited out. Gentle hands braced his shoulders. The coughing ended and he went limp, breathless from the pain and exertion. When he could see again, he found Kinch, O'Malley, LeBeau, Carter, Newkirk, and Olsen crowded around the bed, anxiously watching him.

"Are you okay, Colonel?" O'Malley asked.

_Never better, _came Hogan's silent, sarcastic response. Aloud, he said, "Yeah." He dragged his hand up to his face and wiped his watering eyes, frustrated by how weak he felt.

O'Malley sat on the edge of the bunk and stared down at him. "Sir, are you having trouble breathing?"

Newkirk came closer. "He sounded wheezy to me."

Quick as a striking snake, O'Malley had his stethoscope out and the metal bell to Hogan's chest. Hogan sucked in a breath to protest, but O'Malley quickly hushed him.

A minute went by while the medic listened hard to Hogan's heart and lungs. Hogan stared straight ahead the whole time, his expression closed.

"No wheezing or crackling," O'Malley murmured, pulling the stethoscope away.

"No pneumonia, then?" Kinch asked, wanting to be clear.

O'Malley shook his head. "Dry throat maybe."

Within no time at all, Carter had a mug of water before Hogan. "Just what the doctor ordered," he quipped, smiling.

More for Carter's benefit than his own, Hogan accepted the water without comment, took several careful sips and then pushed the mug away.

Kinch caught the other men's attention and gestured toward the door. "Give us a few minutes, fellas."

Feeling his strength fading, Hogan mustered what he could, determined to learn what had been happening while he was flat on his back. He glanced up. Kinch was watching him with a slightly wary look in his eyes.

"Fuel depot?" Hogan rasped, conserving breath and strength by limiting his questions to a few words.

Kinch's eyebrows arched. "You heard that?"

Rather than wasting breath, Hogan answered with a blank stare.

"We're hitting it tomorrow night. Carter's got everything ready. Benson, Newkirk, Broughton and Jones are going out with him."

Hogan silently cursed his sluggish mind. "Where?"

Without realizing it, Kinch fell into the same shortened speech pattern. "Breton's been reopened."

"First mission since . . ." Hogan faltered, then pushed on. "My birthday?"

"Yeah."

Hogan's fist curled upon his stomach. "Cancel."

Kinch frowned. "Cancel?"

"Too soon." Hogan locked eyes with him. "Air strike or postpone."

"A trap?"

Hogan's fingers clenched tighter. He didn't know. He _couldn't_ know. Yet everything in him warned it was too soon. The Germans had lost three men in one night. They would be out for blood, primed and vigilant until something else demanded their attention.

"Postpone."

"All right," Kinch's voice was calm, accepting. He doubted London would feel the same.

Hogan's eyes drooped, fluttered, and closed. His side throbbed and his head pounded in time with his pulse. White spots danced and jittered across the darkness behind his eyelids. The nausea swirled faster, flooding his mouth with saliva. He swallowed, flattening his palm upon his stomach.

"Is it bad?"

Hogan pried open the eye nearest Kinch. His friend nodded down at where his hand lay upon his stomach.

"Your stomach. Is it really bothering you?"

Hogan drew his hand down to his side. "Not much."

Kinch nodded slowly, clearly not buying it. The silence stretched and then he softly cleared his throat. "Colonel. About what happened --"

"Hochstetter been around?"

"No," Kinch answered truthfully.

Hogan studied him through half-lidded eyes, wondering. Hochstetter's distorted face suddenly loomed before him, while the Gestapo officer's maniacal laughter rang in his head.

"_It was you! You were responsible!"_

The memory of Kinch's voice cut through the laughter. _"You've got to try! Come on, Colonel! Come with me!"_

"Where?" Hogan whispered, shuddering as images and sounds ricocheted about him.

"_It was you!"_ Hochstetter yelled, triumphant.

"Colonel?"

Hogan jerked, his eyes flying open. Kinch was closer, one hand wrapped about Hogan's tensed, sweating forearm. The dark eyes peered deep into his own, as if trying to read his mind.

_I wouldn't if I were you, buddy,_ Hogan thought, enduring another flash of Hochstetter's face. _It's not a pretty place_.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

Hogan nodded. Kinch held his gaze a moment longer, then released his grip and sat back again.

"I'm here, sir," Kinch said, voice soft, his expression open. He held his breath, hoping – praying – Hogan would accept the offer. The sooner his CO talked about the events of Marta's death, the sooner he could truly get beyond it.

Hogan's face tightened into a mask. "Trouble with Klink?"

Kinch suppressed a sigh, not really surprised by the refusal. "No, sir." He paused. "Do you remember him coming to see you?"

Hogan's focus turned inward. _"Are you in pain?"_ His gaze returned to Kinch. "Morning roll call."

Kinch gave him a steady look. "He came back several times after that, one of those times, he insisted on being alone with you."

"Alone?" Hogan croaked, knowing even Klink could identify bullet wounds if he saw them.

"Maybe ten minutes." Kinch thought a moment, then reluctantly decided to disclose everything. Otherwise, Hogan would never fully trust him again.

"Hochstetter called him the morning after you were hurt, wanting to know how you were. Klink lied; said you'd been to see him that morning, feisty as ever." A wry grin appeared on his face. "Those weren't his exact words."

Hogan stared at him, utterly speechless and deathly pale at the danger his men had been – and still were – in because of his mistakes.

"Nothing's changed," Kinch said, seeking to reassure him verbally and with a casual shrug. "Klink must not have seen anything because he hasn't changed his routine, hasn't snuck out for any secret meetings, hasn't gotten any suspicious calls and no new prisoners have arrived."

The memory of Josef's stricken expression abruptly appeared before Hogan.

"_Mein Gott, Robert!"_

Hogan lurched for the side of the bed, the water he'd drunk coming back up in a burning rush. Kinch jumped to his feet and to one side, where he helplessly watched Hogan gag and gasp through a round of dry heaves.

The sound brought O'Malley on the run. Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter came in right behind him. Olsen and Parker stopped at the doorway, a mix of sympathy and worry creasing their faces.

Within minutes, Hogan and the floor had been cleaned up. O'Malley tossed a soiled cloth in a bucket of water and turned a scolding look upon Kinch.

"That's enough."

"No," Hogan panted. His eyes stood out in his tightly drawn face like black coals. Lanks of sweat-dampened hair hung over his forehead. Kinch had never seen him look so bad, not even when the fever had been at its worst. He crouched next to the bed, laying a hand upon Hogan's arm.

"He's right. There's--"

"The Metzgers?"

A soft smile curved Kinch's mouth. "They're fine, Colonel." Hogan continued to stare at him. "They're fine," Kinch repeated.

"Doc's been by," Newkirk said over Kinch's shoulder.

Carter nodded. "Much as he's been able to, anyway."

"He has said nothing of any trouble, _colonel," _LeBeau soothed.

Their faces twirled before Hogan, blending and twisting into a smear of color. His strength was completely gone. His body had reached its limit. He sank deeper into the mattress, their voices fading to a murmur overlaid by the pounding of his heartbeat.

"_It was an accident, Robert. An accident."_

_I should have held my fire until I'd identified my target!_ Hogan silently raged, just before the darkness took him back.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Klink laid his pistol upon the cloth spread over his desk, handling the weapon with the respect it deserved. It was newly cleaned and oiled, ready for use.

He sat back in his chair, letting his eyes skim the weapon's gleaming contours. He had never been fully at ease with it, not even after years of practice and familiarity. Give him a strong, handmade violin with a pure voice any day. Music was the expression – the soul – of life. It was creation. Weapons were the cruel heart of destruction and death, the very antithesis.

He stretched out his arm, lightly ran the tip of his index finger along the cool barrel. He wasn't sure who had been more surprised when he had fired the pistol - the prisoners or himself. The guards were most assuredly surprised. He usually left any show of force to them. But today, when the fight had broken out, the tension that had clung to him for the last week had finally sought release. The pistol was somehow in his hand and in the next instant, he had pulled the trigger.

He remembered that brittle moment of silence that had fallen over the camp as the last echo of the shot had died. That instant when true surprise had flashed in everyone's eyes – prisoners and guards alike.

_Such a seductive thing_, Klink mused, pulling his finger away from the weapon and dropping his hand to his lap, _to hold the power of life and death in one hand. _He stared at the pistol, finding no answers in the eyes reflected back at him by the weapon's burnished barrel.

He suddenly stood and with brisk efficiency, picked the weapon up and slid it back in the holster at his hip. Minutes later, his violin was tucked beneath his chin. His eyes closed and with a lover's touch, he put the bow to the strings. Within moments, he was lost in his music, his body swaying gently as he played.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Take me to him."

Kurt spread his arms wide. "Mutter, it is just not possible."

His plan had been to check on his parents before heading off to a twelve hour shift at the Krankenhaus. After that - and if all went well - he had intended to check on Robert. He had not expected his mother to have a plan of her own. His gaze sought out his father, begging him to intervene on his behalf.

Josef set his cold pipe aside and left his rocking chair, moving slowly to buy himself more time. He had feared it would come to this. Romie had been dropping casually worded hints about seeing Hogan for days. He shifted his gaze from his stubborn son to his equally stubborn wife, girding himself for battle. It was Romie, however, who fired the first salvo.

"Surely, it cannot be that difficult to get one small woman inside Stalag 13." Her blazing blue eyes cut back and forth between her uncooperative son and traitorous husband. Her fiery gaze returned to Kurt and it was all he could do not to quiver like the greenest intern.

"Mutter, please," he sputtered. "It is not that simple." He sidestepped to the solid support of his father's side. "Tell her it is not that simple," he whispered out the corner of his mouth.

Josef gave his son – a man used to dealing with life and death crises on a daily basis, of taking charge of an entire room full of nurses without the slightest trouble – a look of pure incredulity. And then he burst into laughter.

Stunned by the unexpected – and in his opinion, traitorous reaction - Kurt turned and gaped at him.

"Vater! What she is asking is too dangerous to even contemplate!"

Josef's chuckles died, but the smile never left his face. "The boot is on the other foot," he intoned, draping an arm around his son's drooping shoulders. "Now you understand how we felt when you came to us with outrageous ideas."

"Outrageous?" Kurt echoed in a slightly high-pitched voice. Josef and Romie glanced at each other, silently calling a truce long enough to share a smile and join forces.

"There was the time when you were five," Romie chuckled. "You wanted to dissect one of the chickens."

"It was an old chicken!" Kurt shot back.

Josef cocked his head, the better to catch his son's wide eyes. "And when you were prepared to walk all the way to the Berlin Krankenhaus to speak with the doktors?"

Kurt straightened and with an air of great dignity, replied, "It was very important that I learn what courses to take for entrance into medical school."

"You were only seven," Romie gently reminded him.

A twinkle appeared in Kurt's eyes, but his tone remained sober. "One can never start too early." The twinkle faded and he grew serious. "I cannot do it, Mutter. Not even for Robert's sake. Nor would he want you to place yourself in danger on his behalf. The risks are far too great."

Romie crossed the room and took his hands.

"I am used to risk."

He shook his head. "Not to this degree." His voice softened. "He is getting better. I would not keep it from you if it were otherwise."

She cupped his cheek, a tender smile crinkling her eyes. "I know, meine Sohn."

Josef rested a hand upon her shoulder. "Then why demand to see him?"

Sighing, she let her hand fall to her side as she turned and walked to the window. Her voice, husky with unshed tears, floated back to them over her shoulder.

"I have been having nightmares." She grasped the edge of the curtain, drew it back, and stared out the window at the barnyard. "It is morning and I am up with the sun. Josef is still asleep . . . ," she sent him a quick, watery grin over her shoulder. "I put on my coat and pick up the basket to gather the eggs . . . and then I open the door . . . And he is there . . ." Tears running freely down her cheeks, she gestured at the window, directing their attention to the barnyard. "lying on his stomach in the dirt, hands stretched toward the house. As if –" She broke off with a sob, burying her face in her hands. "as if he had died trying to crawl to us for help."

Kurt and Josef rushed across the room, white-faced from witnessing her pain and the horrible image. Josef pulled her into his arms and pressed her close, furiously berating himself. There were times that he slept soundly – so soundly that a tree falling outside the bedroom window would not wake him. But his eyes worked perfectly well, and he had watched her grow more pale and weary by the day - and had done nothing to learn the cause.

"Forgive me, beloved," he whispered, tenderly kissing the top of her head.

She nodded against his chest, her sobs slowing, and then glanced from one to the other. "You understand now why I am must see him?" She reached out and grasped Kurt's hand. "Just as I am able to feel your warmth and see the life in your eyes, so I must be able to do the same with Robert. Only then will my heart truly believe."

Kurt bowed his head, struggling for the words to deny her yet again. More than anything, he wanted to banish the horrifying nightmares and take away her pain. But he would not take her into danger. Nor would Robert want him to.

Josef shook his head. "We do understand, Mutter. But what you wish can not be. If anything were to go wrong, yours would not be the only life lost. Kurt and I would die, as well as Robert, his men, and possibly more."

A shuddering sigh gusted from Romie as she rested her cheek against Josef's chest again. Her gaze lingered upon Kurt, envisioning the tow-headed boy he had once been. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. How could she have even considered risking the life of her remaining natural-born child just to take away her own pain?

She left Josef's arms and hugged Kurt as tightly as she could, feeling the reassurance of his steady heartbeat against her cheek. His arms came around her, gentle, yet strong. Romie allowed herself to bask his embrace for only a few moments, then stepped back and smiled into the blue eyes that so closely matched her own.

"Tell him --" she paused as her voice cracked. "Tell him I love him."

"And that we cannot wait to see him," Josef added, sadness softening his smile.

"Tell him--" Romie pressed a hand over her mouth, struggling to complete her message, "that I can't wait to hold him again."

Kurt nodded.

"I will."

* * *

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_


	15. Chapter 15

_My thanks, as always, to Marilyn for beta-ing._

* * *

"You haven't told him?" 

"Not yet," Kinch sighed, watching Carter conceal his blond hair under a black knit cap.

Newkirk turned from his locker, a grin shining in his darkened face. "Not like you to put off such things," he teased.

"Procrastination," Carter chuckled, reaching into his locker for his gloves. He pulled them on, flexed his fingers in the cool leather.

"I prefer to call it exercising discretion," Kinch tossed back, slightly defensive. His stomach was performing somersaults at the thought of sending them out, but London had been adamant. The fuel depot had to be destroyed tonight, with or without Hogan's approval. Kinch knew which _he_ preferred.

Newkirk closed his locker with a nudge of his shoulder, his hands occupied with securing his gun belt around his waist. "So when you going to tell him, then, mate?"

"When the time is right." Kinch glanced at Benson, Broughton and Jones, standing just inside the doorway. All three were fully kitted out for the night's mission, their faces somber beneath the oily camouflage. They'd been unusually quiet and watchful, leading him to wonder if they'd sensed his uneasiness.

Carter looked up from double-checking his bootlaces and looked toward the doorway as movement caught his eye. Tivoli had appeared out of the tunnel behind Benson, Broughton and Jones, looking like a tall, black-haired ghost. Carter and Newkirk glanced at each other, sharing their surprise at seeing him dressed for the mission. It wasn't uncommon for six men to go out on an assignment such as this. What surprised them was that Tivoli had apparently been added at the last minute.

Newkirk faced Kinch, a hint of apprehension in his voice. "You expecting trouble?"

"It's only been a week. An extra gun seemed a good idea," Kinch answered evenly.

Carter glanced back at Tivoli. Arms crossed and feet braced apart, the big Italian confidently returned his regard.

"Am I interrupting?"

Everyone turned toward the tunnel. Kurt stood several paces back from the doorway, medical bag in hand, coat draped over his arm. Kinch waved him in.

"Wait here," Kinch told him, motioning to a chair. "I won't be long." He led the others to the tree stump exit, where he quietly reminded them of their orders and wished them good luck. They trooped up the ladder and disappeared, and he retraced his steps, gearing his mind from one worry to another.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"How is he?" Kurt demanded as soon as he set eyes on Kinch again.

Kinch gave him an arched look. "Isn't that supposed to be my question to you?"

Kurt scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yes. Well. In this case, I feel it best to have observations other than my own." He shrugged. "These are not typical circumstances and it may be difficult for me to stay completely objective with this patient."

"And we won't?" Kinch asked, his grin only slightly pained.

A wry smile came and went on Kurt's face. "Have you had success getting him to talk with you?"

"Oh, yeah," Kinch said, his voice turning sarcastic. "About anything except Marta and what happened that night."

Kurt leaned back in the chair, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I was afraid of that."

Kinch grabbed the other chair at the table and straddled it, folding his arms atop its back. "He's just not ready."

"His recovery can be negatively affected by his state of mind," Kurt reminded him, index finger tapping the table with each word.

Kinch sighed. "You know how he is, Doc. Trying to force him before he's ready isn't the way."

Kurt held his gaze for a long moment. "You are right, of course."

Kinch stood, gestured in the direction of Barracks Two. "Come on. Let's go see him. Who knows? Maybe he'll surprise us by talking our ears off."

Kurt snorted. "I will believe that when swine grow wings and fly."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Caught in the web of a nightmare, Hogan watched helplessly as it happened all over again.

His finger tightened on the trigger, the barrel of the gun tracking Marta as she tried to run.

Hogan groaned in his sleep, unable to stop it, unable to save her.

The gun went off, the bullet sped out of the barrel in a flash of light and smoke. The last instant before the lethal missile struck, Marta's eyes locked with Hogan's; filled with fear, bewilderment, and accusation.

_NO!_

Hogan jerked awake, trembling and bathed in clammy sweat. He sagged back into his pillow, giving himself time to recover from the nightmare's effects, then carefully rolled his head toward the room. It seemed to take a long time before the fuzziness faded from his vision. He scanned the room, noting Kinch's book upon the desk, an empty bowl, and O'Malley's stethoscope. A pail sat near the wall, a cloth draped over its edge.

He twisted onto his side, wincing as his sore shoulder took his weight. Pain pulsed through his body, but he had no intention of letting it stop him. Gathering strength and breath, he threw back the blankets and dragged his feet over the side of the bed. The room spun and dipped and a buzz started in his ears. He clung to the edge of the bed, head down, breathing slow and deep to keep from passing out. The darkness faded from his vision, the buzz died, and the room and its contents gradually settled.

He contemplated the distance to the locker set against the far wall. Normally, it was three steps. In his present condition, it looked closer to ten.

Stubborn Irish will got him on his feet. By the time he reached the locker, sweat was dripping down his face and he was breathing hard, every muscle weak from exhaustion. Bracing a hand against the locker, he opened it and looked into the mirror mounted inside. His eyes widened as he saw himself.

He looked gray as a day-old corpse with sunken, mud-colored eyes. His black hair didn't help matters. It was plastered to his sweat-damp forehead, accenting his unhealthy color. Hogan glowered at the gaunt stranger in the glass.

_One look at you and Hochstetter will_ _turn **you and your men** into corpses. Get off your butt, clean yourself up and do your job!_

"What are you doing?"

Hogan's head jerked toward the door. The movement threw off his shaky balance and his knees buckled. Kurt and Kinch flew to him, catching him before he hit the floor.

Several minutes and a lot of fussing and lecturing later, he found himself back in bed, completely worn out, yet still determined.

"I need to be up," he told them, thinking his argument would carry more weight if his voice didn't sound so weak. "The longer I'm down, the more chance there is of someone discovering what's really wrong with me." It was the longest speech he'd made in a week. And it had taken just about everything he had left.

"Someone like Hochstetter?" Kinch asked, eyeing him.

Hogan nodded.

Kinch gave him a tight smile. "Let me worry about him."

Kurt propped a shoulder against the bunk frame. "Kinchloe is capable of taking care of Hochstetter or any other problem that might arise."

Hogan couldn't argue with that. Kinch was capable. More than capable. Any argument would only give the impression that he didn't trust in his second's ability. A wave of guilt swept over him as he suddenly noticed how drawn they both appeared. Kinch _had_ been handling everything and the strain was starting to show. Kurt looked much the same, and Hogan knew his friend had to have been running himself ragged between the hospital, the farm and Stalag 13.

"Sit down, both of you."

"Even flat on his back, he orders everyone around," Kurt muttered to Kinch.

"My responsibility doesn't end just because I'm off my feet," Hogan snapped, anger flaring in the depths of his eyes.

Kinch suppressed a wince at the reminder of responsibility. This was probably the best opportunity he'd get to inform Hogan of London's decree, especially since the men had already left for their mission. Plus, there was the added benefit of having a doctor present in case Hogan's blood pressure went sky high.

"What's wrong?" Hogan demanded, studying him carefully. He didn't like the tense set of Kinch's shoulders, and more than once, had glimpsed his second checking the time.

"London refused a delay. The guys left thirty minutes ago for the fuel depot."

A chill went straight through Hogan's chest. He bit out a curse, worked to get his sluggish body upright. Kinch gently pressed him back. Hogan pushed uselessly at his hands, frustrated, angry and scared for his men.

"They'll have an extra gun protecting them," Kinch explained, breathing an inward sigh of relief when Hogan gave up the fight. "I sent Tivoli along as insurance."

"They will be fine, Colonel." Kurt pressed two fingers to the inside of Hogan's wrist, frowned at the galloping pulse. "Calm down," he murmured.

"I'll check if Baker's heard anything." It was too soon for news of any kind, but Kinch was willing to make the effort for a chance that it might ease Hogan's worry. He turned to go, briefly making eye contact with Kurt.

Kurt had wanted a chance to talk with Hogan alone. He had it.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

With Kinch's departure, a brittle silence fell over the room and its remaining occupants. Kurt suddenly found himself grasping for something to say. Hogan lay only feet away yet the distance felt more like a vast chasm - one Kurt was uncertain how to bridge. He glanced down at the medical bag at his feet and decided that doing his job might be the best way to start.

He removed the stitches from Hogan's shoulder and examined the ear, took his temperature and blood pressure and checked his heart and lungs. All the while, he kept up a steady stream of talk about what he was doing, what the weather was like, what had been happening at the Krankenhaus – anything he could think of to draw Hogan out and spark some interest. And while his fingers and mouth were working, Kurt was also busy observing. He didn't like what he saw. Hogan's ribs were starting to stand out like his mother's old washboard, the shadows under his eyes were darker, and his gaze never quite rose to the level of Kurt's face.

Examination complete, Kurt tucked his instruments back into his bag - at the same time mentally switching gears from doctor to friend. Hogan chose that moment to break his self-imposed silence, his voice low, rough and determined.

"I am getting out of this bed."

Sighing to himself, Kurt shifted back into doctor mode. "We will discuss this when you are able to keep food down and stay awake for more than ten to twenty minutes at a time."

Hogan's head snapped toward him, angry, dark eyes finally meeting Kurt's. "The only way I'm going to build my strength back up is if I get out of this room and walk."

Kurt gave him a long, level stare. Hogan huffed in annoyance.

"Look at me! I look like a zombie --"

"Zombie?" Kurt parroted. "What is a zombie?"

Hogan glared at him. "A walking corpse."

Kurt's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "Corpses do not walk! It is a complete impossibility!"

Hogan sank back on his pillow, breathing hard from carrying his end of the conversation and butting heads with one as hard as his own. As he lay trying to find the air to continue, he was painfully aware of a pair of electric blue eyes taking note of every weakness.

"Kurt . . ." Hogan paused, calming his roiling emotions with a few deep breaths that pulled at his wounded side. "This is not up for discussion. I have a duty to my men to get my butt out of this bed and back into command. And I'm doing it whether you agree with me or not."

"Your duty is also to yourself," Kurt threw back with some heat.

"My men come first," Hogan snapped, half-rising off the bed. Pain gnawed at his shoulder with hot teeth, dropping him back onto the bed. "Always."

Kurt's gaze fell to his watch. As much as he wanted to continue this, he didn't have the time. He had his own duty to attend to. "I am due at the Krankenhaus soon."

Hogan's head bobbed in a definitive nod. "Good. Stay away."

"What?" Kurt sputtered, completely taken aback.

"It's too dangerous . . . for you to keep coming back here . . . so often. I'm doing okay now." At Kurt's snort of disbelief, he sucked in a quick breath and quickly added, "I'm going to be . . . fine. You said so . . . yourself."

Kurt shook his head, frustrated. Hogan had never been an easy patient and Kurt doubted he ever would be. "You can hardly catch your breath now."

"Because I've been . . . flat on . . . my back for the . . . last week!"

"It is too soon to be pushing yourself so hard."

Hogan's colorless features hardened. "If that's what it takes . . ."

"You run the risk of a setback, of losing ground you have gained."

"I'll risk it."

Kurt gave his head a hard shake. There was no winning this argument. Realizing time was short, he tossed his doctor's persona and moved on. He had messages to deliver.

"Mutter and Vater miss you."

Hogan went still, his expression undergoing subtle shifts.

Kurt continued, dutifully reciting his parents' messages word for word. "They want you to know that they love you. Mutter said that she can hardly wait to hold you again."

A flicker of emotion passed over Hogan's face and his gaze shifted to the end of the bed.

"I have my own message for you, Robert." Kurt waited for a response but got none. "Marta's death was an accident."

"I fired. She died," Hogan bit out, his gaze still turned away.

"_I_ have forgiven you. _Mutter and Vater_ have forgiven you," Kurt pressed on, determined to breech the steel wall of Hogan's self-recrimination. "_You_ must do the same."

Hogan's only response to that was a slight tightening of his mouth.

Kurt reluctantly checked the time again, then bent down and grabbed his medical bag. "I must leave, Robert, but I _will_ return." He paused at the door, throwing Hogan a smug look over his shoulder. "And 'I am doing it whether you agree with me or not.' "

As he walked through the common room and descended into the tunnels, Kurt wondered if his words had been perceived as promise or threat. He decided it didn't matter. He _would_ return and when he did, he hoped to find Hogan had taken that final step toward healing.

* * *

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	16. Chapter 16

_Thank you, Marilyn! _

**Chapter 16**

* * *

Hogan chewed the small bite of food slowly, only half-listening to the conversations around him. He could see O'Malley from the corner of his right eye, keeping close watch on his every move. Braveheart was playing a losing game of solitaire to his left, sitting close, but not close enough that he felt crowded. He could hear LeBeau moving around behind him, puttering with a pan on the wood stove, and Olsen pitching laundry basketball style into the communal hamper. It sounded like he was four for seven. Not bad, considering the room was lit with only a single lantern trimmed low, and the hamper sat in deep shadow. 

Swallowing the food with slow deliberation, Hogan looked down at his plate and suppressed a sigh. He'd managed only a third of the scrambled eggs and several bites of dry toast. His stomach was sending out occasional growls, uncertain whether or not it was happy with the food. Happy or not, it was getting at least one more bite. He needed his strength back, as soon as possible.

Favoring his bad shoulder, he pushed some more eggs onto the fork and put it into his mouth. Even fresh eggs didn't taste good right now. He worked on the food, focusing his mind on other things and hoping his cranky stomach would quiet down.

Kinch had returned to the barracks long enough to let him know there'd been no word from their men. Not that Hogan had thought there would be. They hadn't been gone long at that time. But hours had passed since then. Long enough for them to have blown the fuel depot and be on their way back.

Hogan forced the egg down his throat and reached for the toast, noting with relief that his hand was steadier. He nibbled the toast, his thoughts circling back to Kinch's decision to proceed with the mission.

He would have given Kinch hell under any other circumstances. But in this case, he'd limited his displeasure to a direct stare and a few low words of warning. Kinch was well aware of his feelings on the matter. There was no reason to belabor them.

He quit nibbling and bit into the toast, focusing heavy-lidded eyes upon the tunnel entrance. Without consciously making the decision, he tried rolling and flexing his right shoulder, testing it. Pain drilled into the muscle, causing him to almost choke on the toast. He cleared his throat, ignoring Braveheart and O'Malley's sharp glances of concern.

"Schultz is coming," Parker warned, leaving the door and diving back into his bunk.

The door swung open and Schultz charged in, his gaze doing a quick sweep past Hogan and around the barracks. It darted back to Hogan and with a wide smile, he closed the door and lumbered over to the table. Before anyone could react, he landed a hard slap to Hogan's back, jarring him forward over his plate. O'Malley shot off his bunk, restraining himself from yelling at Schultz only at the last moment. As far as the guard knew, Hogan was recovering from an illness, not bullet wounds.

"Colonel, you are up!" Schultz's gaze fell to Hogan's plate and his smile grew wider. "And eating!"

Hogan looked up and attempted a smile, unable to answer due to the agony Schultz's blow had awakened in his shoulder and chest. The slight dimming of Schultz's happy expression told him the attempt had not been entirely successful.

"Colonel Hogan, it is good to see you doing so much better, but you know what the kommandant would say if he found out . . ." Schultz tipped his head toward the lantern on the table.

"I could not prepare the food in the dark," LeBeau huffed, his voice sharp with defiance and indignation. "And the _colonel_ could not see to eat it."

O'Malley took Schultz by the arm and pulled him toward the woodstove. "The colonel's doing better and we want to keep it that way. Once he's done eating, you have our word that we'll douse the light and go back to our beds."

Schultz's lips pursed with indecision. O'Malley patted him on the arm, offering a smile that he hoped would sway the balance. "No harm done, so no need to tell the kommandant about this. Right?"

Schultz looked around the room again. "Where is Kinchloe?"

"In my bed," Braveheart rumbled from the table, staring down at his game. He flipped a card over, and then laid the red three of hearts atop a black four of spades. "That's where he fell asleep and I didn't have the heart to wake him."

Schultz stared at Braveheart's bunk. It did appear someone of Kinch's size was asleep in it. Of course, he had no way of knowing that 'someone' under the mound of blankets was actually four pillows.

"Don't wake him," Braveheart warned, frowning down at his cards. "He's really tired."

O'Malley turned Schultz toward the door and away from Braveheart's bunk. "Be a good fellow, Schultz, and let the colonel finish his meal in peace."

Schultz gave Braveheart's bunk another narrow look and then decided to let the matter drop. Despite all the shenanigans that had ever happened in Stalag 13, Hogan and his men had never let him down. After another reminder about the light, he returned to his patrol.

LeBeau slid onto the bench on Hogan's right, his eyes soft with concern. "Are you all right, _colonel_?"

"No damage done," Hogan sighed, resuming his assault on the toast.

O'Malley ran his eyes over Hogan's face and slumped posture. "That was some whallop. You sure you don't want to lie down?"

Hogan didn't even deign to answer. Olsen, hands in his back pockets, ambled into his line of sight and motioned to the entrance with an easy twist of his shoulders.

"Think I'll go below and see what's happening. Anything you want me to do while I'm down there, Colonel?"

Hogan let what was left of the toast fall to his plate. A swarm of possibilities flew through his mind, none of which O'Malley would allow. There was one, however.

"Have the guys report to me as soon as they get back." Hogan caught the looks that flashed between LeBeau and O'Malley and tensed, ready for a fight. They had absolutely no hope of getting him back to his bed before that time.

Olsen nodded. "Yes, sir. Anything else?"

Hogan shook his head, lips curling slightly into a faint grin of thanks. Olsen hesitated as if to say something more, apparently decided not to, and went to the entrance. Moments later, the bunk rattled closed behind him.

Hogan pushed the plate away, carefully folded his arms on the table and settled in to wait. Regardless of O'Malley's wishes, he wasn't budging from the spot until he'd seen every one of his men come back through that entrance safe and sound.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Romie slowly sat up in bed, pausing to see if the movement had disturbed Josef. He snorted, rolled over and after a few moments, his snoring continued. She threw back the blankets on her side, slid her feet into her slippers and stood, reaching for her robe at the foot of the bed.

Mozart's head flew up and he left the little pallet of rags Romie had fixed for him on the floor at the end of the bed. Tail wagging low, he snuffled the hem of her robe and looked up at her, over-long ears flopping back onto his shoulders. Romie knelt, put a finger to her lips and looking into the little furry face, pointed up at the bed. Mozart's tail wagging sped up and his mouth opened in a doggy smile.

"We do not want to wake him," Romie whispered, knowing there really wasn't much chance of that happening. Still, she didn't want Mozart to give voice in his piercing bark. His tail whipped back and forth, his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. To Romie, it seemed that he had understood every word.

She belted her robe about her, crooked a finger at the little dog to follow and padded out of the room. Mozart stayed close, his toenails clicking on the bare floor between the rag rugs.

In the kitchen, Romie poured fresh water into Mozart's bowl and then walked into the gathering room, easily finding her way around furniture in the dark. Head cocked, Mozart watched with interest while she laid a log in the fireplace and stirred the coals to life. Flames licked at the dry wood, quickly setting it afire. Romie basked in the heat like a cat for a few moments, then rose and went to her rocker. Mozart circled several times near her feet, dropped to the floor and curled into a ball. He watched the flames' flickering dance, his ears pricking and falling with each pop and hiss of steam, his eyelids drooping lower and lower. Soon his head dropped to his paws and he fell asleep with a deep sigh.

Romie smiled down at him, then went back to staring into the fire, only vaguely hearing the clock chiming midnight. Her hand crept into the pocket of her robe and slowly withdrew a length of bright, royal blue ribbon. She stroked the narrow band of satin, slowly running its length between her fingers. As it had every night since Marta's death, her mind replayed memories of the little girl's brief life.

Marta had loved to sing and dance, nearly from the time she could walk. If allowed, she would happily entertain Romie and Josef for hours, singing her favorite songs or making them up at the spur of the moment. They had never tired of it, and Karl and Margaret had often joked that they were raising the next Marlene Dietrich.

A tear welled in Romie's eye and broke free to trickle down her cheek. She dashed it away and looked down at the ribbon, sliding the silky length through her fingers again. It had been Marta's favorite and Romie had used it many times to tie the little girl's hair into a ponytail. The last had been the night Marta and Robert had met.

Marta had been captivated by the tall stranger in black from the first moment he had appeared at Romie and Josef's door. Naturally shy, she'd peeked at him from the safety of the kitchen. After some encouragement from Romie and Josef, she had overcome her shyness and approached Robert. He had gracefully gone to a knee and bowed his head, flashing that full on grin and paying her all the respect due a princess. Marta had loved it. Her shyness forgotten, she had moved in close, taking in every detail of his face, from his smile and deep brown eyes to his wavy, black hair.

She had of course, asked his name. Robert had answered easily and without hesitation, saying he was 'a friend'. Marta had not been satisfied.

"_But you must have a name." Marta studied him with serious eyes, a frown furrowing her brow. "May I choose one for you?"_

_Robert's head dipped. "I would be honored." His dark eyes, alight with amusement, briefly lifted to Romie and Josef. Marta suddenly placed her hand upon his shoulder. Her cheeks dimpled with a smile. _

"_I will call you 'Galahad'."_

A choked sob welled in Romie's throat and she covered her mouth, pressing the sound back so not to disturb Josef. Mozart shot to his feet with a soft whine. Romie bent down, quickly hushed him. His tongue shot out, bathing her fingers with warm, enthusiastic licks. She patted his head, soothing him with touch and whispered assurances until he lay down at her feet once more. Drying her face with the sleeve of her robe, she sat back in the rocker again. Her gaze returned to the fire, her thoughts carrying her back to the bittersweet memory.

"_. . . 'Galahad'."_

Robert's expression had been priceless. Once he'd gotten over the shock, he'd accepted the moniker with good grace and considerable fortitude. Each time Marta had used it, he, as well as Romie and Josef, had been hard-pressed not to dissolve into laughter. At some point in the visit, Josef asked the reason behind her choice.

"_Mutter and Vater tell me stories before I sleep. My favorites are of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table." She looked up at Robert, her eyes sparkling with reflected firelight. "That's why I chose 'Galahad'. You remind me of him." _

"_He appears more an_ '_Arthur', to me," Josef chuckled, sending a teasing glance in Robert's direction._

"_Oh, no," Marta argued, ponytail flipping back and forth with each shake of her head. "Arthur stays at Camelot. But Galahad and the other knights go on quests and rescue damsels and slay dragons. They get to be the real heroes."_

Sniffling, Romie tucked the ribbon back into her pocket and left the rocker, being careful not to trip over Mozart. He sat up and yawned, blinking sleepily. Romie went to the small, carved chest upon the mantle. Raising the lid, she reached inside and lifted out the delicate paper figure. Apparently deciding she wasn't going back to bed, Mozart stretched, then curled up again. Head upon his paws, he watched her, just in case she changed her mind.

Cradling the origami swan in her cupped palm, Romie returned to the rocker and set it in motion.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch had always considered himself an optimist – a "glass is half-full" type of guy. Yet that optimistic nature was faltering.

He tore his gaze from his watch and checked his calculations again. The men should have had more than enough time to travel to the fuel depot, blow it, and travel back.

"Kinch?"

Kinch looked toward the doorway, more than a little startled that he hadn't heard anyone coming. Olsen walked out of the tunnel, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His gaze shifted from Kinch to the radio and roamed over its dials and switches.

"I thought I'd come down and see if the guys were back. The colonel's about ready to tear his hair out worrying." At Kinch's look of disbelief, Olsen rushed to add, "Not that he's actually said anything, just keeps eyeing the entrance like he's thinking of coming down here to check for himself. O'Malley's on pins and needles watching to be sure he doesn't."

Kinch frowned. "He can't see the entrance from his bed."

Olsen's mouth tightened into a thin smile. "He isn't in his bed. He's dressed and shaved and sitting at the table in the common room."

"He's not worn out from all that?"

Olsen's gaze shifted to the radio again and he considered the question. "He's white as my ninety year-old grandmother's handkerchiefs and about as tottery as her, but other than that? Doing great."

"Has he eaten anything?"

Olsen nodded. "LeBeau scrambled up a couple of the eggs the doc brought the other night. He's been working on them and some toast. They're staying down so far."

Kinch smiled. "Now that's good news."

"Yeah. About time, too." Olsen suddenly looked around the room. "Where's Baker?"

"I sent him back to his barracks." Kinch shot another frown at his watch. "He's been pulling some long—" He broke off as the bell to the emergency tunnel rang. A full smile burst upon Olsen's face.

"Hey, they're back!"

Kinch merely nodded, his eyes having gone to the tunnel beyond. He'd noticed what Olsen hadn't. There'd been no sound - no indication at all - of an explosion in the time the men had been gone. If the mission had been successful, they would have felt some vibration from the explosion, even at this distance. But there'd been no far-off rumble, nor vibration to bring dirt sifting down from the tunnel ceiling and onto their heads.

He shot to his feet, brushed past Olsen and headed for the emergency exit. Déjà vu dogged his heels, driving his steps faster.

* * *

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	17. Chapter 17

_My thanks to Marilyn for her help, and to those who have reviewed!_

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Kinch heard them before he saw them and felt an immediate sense of relief. Their voices were quiet and calm, with no hint of distress. He slowed his rush to a walk and around the next corner came face to face with Benson. They clasped hands in greeting.

"Everyone okay?" Kinch looked past Benson. Newkirk was next in line, but beyond him the tunnel was too narrow and filled with shadows for Kinch to see the other men.

"Nobody hurt, nobody missing." Benson unzipped his jacket, and pulled his cap off and stuffed it into his pocket. The scent of fresh breezes clung to him, noticeable in the tunnel's musty confines.

"What took so long?" Olsen asked from over Kinch's shoulder.

Benson shrugged. "That's a long story."

"Save it for the colonel," Kinch said, already turning to retrace his steps. "He's waiting for us topside."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

The headache was pounding merrily away behind Hogan's eyes, blurring his vision and making him slightly ill. He was tempted to put his head down upon the table, but was afraid if he did, he wouldn't be able to lift it again. He carefully shifted his weight on the bench, but not carefully enough. A spike of pain impaled his shoulder, and he drew in a quick, shallow breath. O'Malley was at his side in a flash.

"Colonel, why don't you lie down? You have my solemn promise that I'll come get you --"

"No." His voice – rough as coarse twenty-four grit sandpaper - sounded as awful as he felt. Sharp spasms lanced his stomach, LeBeau's eggs and toast threatening to make a return appearance. He forced his sagging body upright, biting back a curse as another stab of pain took him by surprise. "I'm fine right here."

He was lying and they both knew it. But rank had its privileges and the last time he'd checked, he outranked O'Malley.

A warm, diminutive presence settled at his other side. LeBeau lightly touched him upon the arm. "You do not look at all fine, _mon_ _colonel_."

The entrance shot open, saving Hogan from expending the strength needed to argue. He'd need every bit of it to stand. Pushing up from the table with his good arm, he willed his legs to hold him. He kept his left hand upon the table as a precaution, while his eyes stayed locked upon the entrance. To his utter relief, every member of the mission team climbed out of the tunnel and fell in around the table. He felt his knees wobble and chose to sit down rather than fall down.

Kinch closed the entrance and turned, his eyes deeply shadowed in the low light. "You were right," he began without preamble. "It was a trap."

"Too right, it was." Newkirk swept his cap off and ran his fingers through his hair. "Good thing we were on our toes."

Benson crossed his arms over his chest, his expression turning pensive. "We were set to make our approach, but something just didn't seem right. So we stayed put and watched for awhile. That's what took so long."

Carter threw a leg over the bench and sat down. "For over an hour and a half to be exact."

Jones smirked down at him, the flickering shadows making it look more a leer. "Cheer up. We didn't waste your boom-booms."

Newkirk's eyebrows flew up. "Or our lives, ta very much."

Olsen smiled. "Always so picky about such things." Laughter lurked in his voice. Newkirk pulled a face at him and lobbed his cap across the table. Olsen dodged it easily.

Benson nodded in Broughton's direction. "Broughton mentioned he'd never seen such a quiet, fully operational fueling station, and he was right. There should have been guys everywhere, checking pumps and equipment, and there should have been trucks coming and going. But we didn't see any activity the whole time we were watching. There were only a couple of guards at the pumps and a few at the two outbuildings. We saw three other guys, and they didn't do much more than stand around."

"Two and two don't make five," Newkirk sighed, looking tired and worn.

Olsen snorted. "Not even for me, and I'm lousy at math."

Carter shook his head, thinking of how close they had come to capture or worse. "It all sure looked good, though."

"Unless you looked close, which we did." Jones sounded almost insulted by the Germans' attempt to lure them into a trap. "Stupid Krauts, lighting up cigarettes not five feet from the pumping station." He swept the group with a look of disbelief and scorn. "And they thought we wouldn't notice that?"

Hard lines furrowed Broughton's face. "Pretty stupid, all right."

"Ol' Hochstetter seemed to think so, too." Newkirk glanced in Hogan's direction. "He snatched those cigarettes right out of their mouths. Just about tore their heads off doing it."

Just the name he'd been dreading to hear. Hogan rested his right arm upon the table, preventing its weight from dragging upon the healing muscles in his chest and shoulder. "You're sure it was Hochstetter?"

"In the creepy flesh." Benson surrendered to his aching body and took a seat at the table.

"The creepiest," Carter agreed with a shudder. He scooted over on the bench, giving Benson more room.

Kinch frowned. "There could have been fuel in those tanks. Why were you so sure it was a trap?"

"Because Mr. Sneaky, here," Benson tipped his head in Tivoli's direction. "Decided to get up close and personal with Hochstetter and the guards."

Hogan's gaze cut toward Tivoli, the movement sparking another jab of pain behind his eyes. "How 'up close' are we talking about?"

Tivoli heard the slight edge to the question and his hipshot stance lost some of its looseness. "Close enough to do the job. I was thinking the same as Kinch, that those Kraut guards might just stupid enough to chance blowing themselves up for a smoke. The only way we'd know for sure if there was fuel was if I got closer." Seeing Hogan's eyes narrow, he quickly tacked on, "Sir."

Hogan's headache had reached blinding levels. He thought it might have something to do with Tivoli's habitual impulsiveness. "This up close and personal foray was done with Benson's permission, of course." It was more challenge than statement.

Kinch cast a sharp glance at him. The only time Hogan used that tone was when he was at the end of his patience . . . or when he was holding onto control by his fingernails. Judging by Hogan's increasingly rocky appearance, Kinch thought is was probably the latter. The brown eyes were barely open, shielded from scrutiny by black lashes.

Tivoli suddenly looked uncomfortable. Benson cleared his throat, drawing Hogan's attention.

"They never even knew he was there, sir," Benson said, darting an apology-laden glance at Tivoli for getting him into trouble. The Italian did that enough on his own. "And he _was_ able to verify that it was a trap."

Hogan's heavy-lidded eyes slowly swung back to Tivoli. Slow as it was, the movement ignited another swirl of dizziness and nausea. His stomach's contents burned and churned, percolating at the base of his throat. He swallowed, forced himself to concentrate as Tivoli spoke again.

"The first thing I noticed was that I couldn't smell any fuel. There should've been some smell, even if there hadn't been any fueling done for hours. No matter how careful a guy is, some gas will always get slopped onto the ground around the tanks and drip down the hoses. The smell sticks around." Tivoli's voice picked up speed with the passion of his argument. "And another thing. I overheard Hochstetter saying he had plans for the 'Resistance vermin' that got caught in his snare."

"Lovely," Newkirk muttered, slapping his cap down upon the table.

But Tivoli wasn't done. "He also explained what would happen should anyone slip through the trap. Those guards were shaking in their boots by the time he finished jawing and stomped off."

Kinch barely registered Tivoli's last comments. He was too busy watching Hogan and the way he kept shifting, as if growing increasingly uncomfortable. O'Malley and LeBeau had been watching, too, and edged closer to the table, one to either side. Hogan held up a warning finger.

"Hold it, you two."

O'Malley and LeBeau stopped their advance, twin expressions of chagrin passing over their faces. Hogan slowly looked up at Kinch.

"Let London know they were conned, and that we're on stand-down until I think it's safe. And get the word out that the Gestapo are at it again with planting fake information. Everything is to be triple-verified before any action is taken." His hard expression softened. "And then get back up here and get some sleep." His gaze roamed over the group. "That goes for everyone."

O'Malley gave him a pointed look. "Yourself included, sir."

Hogan leaned heavily on the forearm resting upon the table. He knew he could no longer avoid his bunk – and the nightmares that would come.

"Myself included."

Alarm tingled down Kinch's back. Hogan had to be feeling horrible to so easily give in to O'Malley's wishes.

Hogan took a deep breath and stood, wavering slightly on his feet. O'Malley and LeBeau braced him from either side, O'Malley taking care not to put any pressure on his wounds. 'Good nights' rang out softly from around the room. Hogan glanced down at his escorts and dredged up a smile for their benefit.

"Ready when you are."

He just hoped he didn't throw up on them for their trouble.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Alone again, Hogan lay quiet in his bunk, fighting to keep his eyes open. He felt foolish doing it, like a little boy afraid of monsters hiding beneath his bed. His body needed the rest that only came with sleep. Yet he just couldn't make himself relax and give in to it.

He'd made it into his quarters and through the slow and painful process of changing into his pajamas without losing his supper. But he was paying for it. His stomach wasn't done reminding him that it hadn't agreed with his decision to eat. Bracing a hand upon it helped, but he was too tired to keep the pressure up for long. He decided it might have been better if he had thrown up.

His thoughts returned to Hochstetter's trap. It would have worked, had it not been for his men's keen observational skills. He knew this wasn't the end of Hochstetter's determination to level his unique brand of justice upon the patrol's killer. The Gestapo major gave new meaning to the word obsessive.

He had to get his strength back. He had to look at least semi-healthy for his men's sake. Hochstetter might visit Stalag 13 at any time.

His head throbbed under the headache's assault. Wincing, he rubbed his brow, hoping the pain would ease soon. There had been a moment during the debriefing when even the lantern's soft light had grown too bright for his eyes and he thought he'd lose consciousness.

_That would have set their minds at ease_, he thought, sighing. His men had worked so hard caring for him. The best way he could repay them, alleviate their worry and keep them safe was to get well. Fast.

But to do that, he'd have to sleep.

A shudder ran the length of his body, so hard the bed let out a soft creak of protest. More pain rocketed through his head and he throttled the resultant moan in his throat. O'Malley had switched bunks with Braveheart to be closest to his quarters. The medic had very good hearing.

Hogan curled onto his good side, cradling a hand to the wound below his shoulder. Exhaustion soon won out. His eyes slid closed, his breathing slowed, and he fell asleep. He was soon locked in a nightmare world, tormented by images and sounds, events from the past and from many possible futures.

* * *

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	18. Chapter 18

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

* * *

Hogan dragged himself from his bed the next morning, more exhausted than when he'd gotten into it. As feared, the nightmares had come again, one right after another in an unbroken chain of horror. What he'd endured couldn't be considered sleep, but torture. His mind had become his own worst enemy.

He sat slumped on the edge of his rumpled bed, face buried in his hands, trying to find the strength to get up. Roll call was only minutes away and he still wasn't dressed. He was exhausted, both in body and in spirit. Yet for his men's sake, he had to summon that same determination that had seen him through the night before. He had to get back on his feet and back into command – whether he felt like it or not.

Hearing footsteps approaching his door, he forced his head up and readied a calm expression. There was a light rap on the doorframe and Kinch looked inside.

"Good morning, sir."

"Kinch," Hogan said, straightening his drooping posture. He could only imagine how bad he must look. His hair was tousled and badly needed washing and judging by the loose fit of his pajamas, his weight had to be down by well over ten pounds.

Kinch regarded him for a long moment, then stepped inside and closed the door. "Colonel, would you like some help getting dressed?"

The offer was welcome. Hogan knew he'd never make roll call on time on his own. His body was still weak and sore, slow to react properly.

"Sure. Thanks."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Schultz came to Hogan's place in the formation and stopped dead in his count. A smile spread across his face and his eyes crinkled with pleasure. His arms rose as if to wrap Hogan in a big, bear hug. Hogan braced himself for what was certain to be another painful experience. His men started to intervene, but to everyone's relief, Schultz stopped just short of the exuberant embrace.

"Colonel Hogan!"

The boisterous greeting battered at Hogan's ragged defenses. He managed a smile – or at least some form of one.

"Morning, Schultz."

"You are feeling better now?" Schultz's volume dropped in concern.

Sarcastic replies flew through Hogan's mind, but he limited his response to a single word.

"Yes."

Kinch leaned forward from the second rank. "Look alive, Schultz. Klink at twelve o'clock."

Schultz whirled about and went to deliver his report. Klink nodded through it all, his gaze not upon Schultz, but Hogan.

"Very good, very good," Klink murmured once Schultz had finished.

Time passed. Klink continued to study Hogan, while Schultz and the prisoners waited to be dismissed. Hogan stared straight ahead, unwilling to make eye contact with Klink and give the German reason to engage him in conversation.

"Herr Kommandant?" Schultz whispered, when Klink continued looking Hogan's way. Schultz's gaze cut back and forth between the two men, and then he moved even closer. "Herr Kommandant?"

Klink jerked out of his reverie, glanced back at Schultz and hop-stepped backward in surprise. "What is it, Schultz?"

Schultz's eyebrows quirked and he made a vague gesture toward the prisoners.

"Dismissed!" Klink snapped, embarrassed at being caught staring and lost in thought. Schultz, mouth pursed in puzzlement, returned his salute, executed an about-face and left to attend to the rest of his duties. Klink huffed something incomprehensible under his breath, shot another glance at Hogan from under the brim of his cap, and marched back into his headquarters.

Hogan's men formed a tight knot around him, solicitous questions regarding his health flying thick and fast. Kinch glimpsed the sudden tightening around Hogan's eyes and moved quickly. Planting himself in front of Hogan to protect him from inadvertent jostling, Kinch raised his voice loud enough to be heard over the noise.

"Come on, give him some room."

The press of bodies immediately pulled back, leaving a comfortable cushion of space around Hogan. Kinch turned to his CO, expecting comments about mother-hens and was surprised when none came.

Hogan briefly contemplated the clear sky before looking around camp as if settling on a plan of action. O'Malley frowned.

"Sir, I don't mean to be a nosy nag, but what is it you're thinking right now?"

Hogan's answer was exactly what he expected, delivered in a tone that allowed no argument.

"I was thinking some exercise is just what I needed."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Klink peered out of his office window. It was good to see Hogan out and about again, even if he was still thin and pale . . . and had dark lines around his eyes . . . and didn't seem very strong yet.

The senior prisoner of war had taken a short walk around camp and now was seated upon one of the benches outside Barracks Two. A small crowd of men milled around his immediate vicinity or stood a short distance away. Kinchloe leaned against the wall just to Hogan's right, while O'Malley stood to his left, arms folded and face drawn into a scowl. Klink leaned toward the glass and squinted, surprised at how subdued Hogan looked seated between them.

Klink leaned so far forward that he bumped his nose against the pane. Yanking his handkerchief from his pocket, he hurriedly wiped the smear away and stared across the yard again. A thought suddenly occurred to him. Just to confirm it, he flipped the latch on the windows and pushed them open.

Even at this distance, he could hear the men joking and laughing. The Englander's voice briefly rose above the others, in all likelihood delivering the punch line to a joke. Fresh laughter broke out and Newkirk beamed, obviously pleased at the response.

Klink frowned. It was a common scene, one he had observed countless times - but for one detail.

Hogan had yet to smile or join in.

A panel truck drove up to the front gates. Klink's attention shifted that way and his frown deepened. Schnitzer, their dog handler, was not due to return with fresh dogs for several days.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"He's early."

Hogan stood, his eyes locked upon the scene at the front gates. Schultz was arguing with Schnitzer through the truck's open window, gesticulating and likely telling the dog handler the very same thing. Hogan cocked his head toward Kinch, his gaze remaining upon the animated discussion.

"You have any idea why he's here?"

"No, sir." Kinch rubbed a finger over his mustache, wondering what possible reason Schnitzer would have for coming without advance notice. He hoped it wasn't more trouble. Hogan was still not in any shape to deal with it, even if he would insist on trying.

Hogan carefully shifted his weight onto one hip, watched Schultz throw his hands up and step back from the truck. At his signal, the guards opened the gates and Schnitzer drove inside, headed for the kennels.

"Looks like he won the argument," Hogan murmured, watching the truck go by.

Newkirk turned to him. "Do you want I should dash on over there, Colonel?"

"Yeah. LeBeau, Carter, go with him."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Schnitzer was just walking to the truck's back doors when Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau snuck close to the kennels. They were about to make their next move when Schultz's bellow stopped them cold.

"Schnitzer!"

The elderly dog handler rolled his eyes and turned away from the truck's doors. Schultz was puffing and red-faced from his quick trip on foot from the gates to the kennels. He bent forward and braced his hands on his thighs, straining for breath. Schnitzer patted him on the back, sympathy on his wizened features.

"You should not eat so much strudel, Schultz."

"Jah, jah," Schultz gasped, slowly straightening.

"Or so much viener schnitzel, either," Newkirk added, ambling over as he had only been passing by. He clapped Schultz on the shoulder, at the same time, angling the guard away from the back of the truck.

"Jah, jah." Schultz nudged Newkirk aside and joined Schnitzer at the truck's back doors. "I still do not understand why you have brought us more dogs," he complained.

Schnitzer balled his fists on his hips and spoke with an air of weary patience. "I did not bring you more dogs. I brought you one dog. Langer has been a real **Tiger **and needs work. He can take Heidi's place and you will have the same number of dogs as before."

Carter and LeBeau glanced at each other, suddenly understanding the reason for Schnitzer's unscheduled visit. Carter peeked around the corner of the building, made eye contact with Newkirk and nodded their readiness. Newkirk threw an arm across Schultz's shoulders and drew him away from the back of the truck again.

"Did I ever tell you about the dog I had as a wee tot, Schultzie?"

Carter ran to the kennels, raised the sliding section of fence and slipped under it. Letting it drop, he ran to one of the doghouses and lifted the front of it off the ground while LeBeau dashed to the truck.

Schnitzer quickly opened the doors and beckoned his passenger out. LeBeau took Tiger's hand and hustled her into the kennels and the tunnel hidden by the doghouse. Once they were below ground, Carter joined them, lowering the doghouse back into place as he descended. Schnitzer released Langer, a burly, black Alsatian into the kennels with the other dogs. Heidi, a svelte black and fawn-colored Alsatian half Langer's size, bounded to Schnitzer's side at his hand signal. He was just leading her out of the kennel to the truck when Newkirk allowed Schultz to turn back around.

"Ah!" Schultz cried, spotting Heidi and going to a knee before her. "You be a good girl for Uncle Schnitzer, jah?"

Heidi's hackles rose and she lowered her head, curling her lip to reveal an impressive set of razor-sharp teeth. Her snarl would have made a grizzly proud. Schultz quickly stood and backed away with a weak chuckle to Newkirk and Schnitzer.

"She loves me."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Ma cherie," LeBeau cooed, pecking Tiger upon each cheek. "It is so good to see you again!" He wrapped her in a tight hug, smiling as she returned it with equal enthusiasm.

"You took a big chance coming here without giving us any warning, ma'am." Carter gestured to the tunnel ceiling. "We might not have been around to run interference."

One of Tiger's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. "Then Schnitzer and I would have thought of something."

LeBeau shot a quelling look at Carter, then turned another smile upon Tiger. "And it would have been brilliant."

"Ma'am," Carter interrupted, ignoring LeBeau's narrow-eyed expression of displeasure. "If you don't mind me asking, is this visit for the colonel's sake?"

Tiger's beautiful face lost all animation. "Oui."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Colonel –"

"Ben," Hogan sighed, walking into Barracks Two. "I know my limitations --"

"Begging the colonel's pardon," O'Malley cut in. "But I'm not so sure you'll respect them."

Hogan stopped at the communal table and leveled a glare at his medic. O'Malley stood firm before it, arms folding tight against his chest.

"You're only just getting your feet back under you again. I'd hate for you to overdo it right off the top and end up flat on your back and hurting more than you are now."

Hogan's expression softened. "I promise--" he fell silent, his gaze cutting to the tunnel entrance as the bunk over it slid up on its pulleys. Carter climbed out, flashed a grin at Hogan and then moved away from the entrance. LeBeau stepped out next, turned and extended a hand to Tiger. She gracefully climbed up and over the bunk frame, her large, expressive eyes already locked upon Hogan's face. She remained beside LeBeau on the other side of the table, as if uncertain of his welcome.

"Olsen," Hogan called over his shoulder, aware of her studying him with slightly widened eyes.

"Nothing, sir." Olsen glanced back at Hogan from his post at the door. "All clear."

Hogan suppressed a sigh and motioning for Tiger to follow, turned and headed for his quarters.

* * *

_Thank you for reading!_

_To be continued . . ._


	19. Chapter 19

_My thanks to Marilyn for her help!_ **

* * *

****Chapter Nineteen**

Hogan went to the window in his quarters and closed the shutters so that no one – German or otherwise – could see inside. Tiger waited by the door until the shutters were secured, then crossed the small room to stand before him. She raised her hand and cupped his haggard cheek.

"Did you really think," she whispered, searching his eyes. "that I would stay away?"

"You should have." His voice was raspy, as if he'd been yelling for hours, or had smoked for days. At any other time, the sound would have thrilled her and set her blood racing. Today, the rough tone told her how very much he was hurting, while the look on his face told her he was preparing reasons to send her away. That was not going to happen – at least not until she was ready.

Her lips quirked in a sad smile and her head moved slowly side to side in response to his comment. "_Non, mon amour_. Never." She kissed his unresponsive lips, then went to his desk and sat, tucking her skirt beneath her with one casual sweep of her hand. His head turned to watch and he frowned, making no move to follow.

"You shouldn't have come. Hochstetter and his goons are working overtime right now, laying traps with false information."

She nodded. "Oui. I know this."

"You know this," he echoed, eyebrows raised. "And you still came?" He shook his head, suddenly angry. "Whatever you have to tell us isn't worth your life, Tiger. Not in my book. Next time just radio us, have Schnitzer deliver the information or find another way."

"I am in no greater danger today than any other day in this forsaken country," she argued softly. "And my reasons for coming had nothing to do with information. I wanted to see you and I intend to stay with you until tonight. Nothing you say will change my mind. DuBois is with my men and as you know, is more than capable of taking command." He started to say something, but she cut him off, adding, "If something happens that requires my attention, then he can reach me by radio."

"Maybe I'm not in the mood for visitors," he countered, well aware that he sounded more like a petulant child than a full-bird colonel.

A slight smile touched her lips. "You would throw me out?"

He leaned his head back with a quiet, drawn-out sigh, powerless in the face of her femininity and his love for her. He couldn't order her to leave him alone like he could his men. Nor could he be rude or even wield cutting words to drive her away.

Throw her out? Yeah, he could do that – about as easily as he could toss a newborn puppy out into the cold.

Woeful brown eyes and overlong ears flashed before him. He bowed his head and massaged his temple with his fingertips. The vision persisted, the lustrous brown eyes turning accusative. He clenched his eyes shut; ground his knuckles into his temple.

"Robert?"

Her worried voice startled him. His eyes flew open and he flinched, mortified that he'd forgotten she was there.

He gave her a tight smile. "Just a headache. I'm doing okay. Not ready to run any marathons yet, but the wounds are healing . . ." He dropped his gaze and turned away, speaking over his shoulder in a voice without inflection. "Don't worry. I'll get over what happened and go on, just like always. This wasn't the first time innocent lives have been lost due to my actions or decisions. We both know it's a sad but inevitable part of the job."

Tiger understood exactly about the emotional backlash that came with command. From the moment she had heard the news, she had sensed his suffering as deeply as if it were her own. She'd also known before she'd even laid eyes on him, that he was not sleeping well, if at all. Nightmares were to be expected considering what had happened that fateful night at the riverbed. She had her own, and most of the time, was able to keep them tightly contained deep within in the recesses of her mind. But sometimes they slipped out – usually after one of her men had died a particularly gruesome death, or after one of Hogan's close calls.

She stood and wrapped her arms about him from behind, resting her cheek against his back.

"_Oui, mon coeur._ We go on because we must. But this time is different. You have wounds that cannot be seen, that continue to bleed. This innocent was a child you had met and talked with. She had a face and name and a place in your heart."

His head tilted back, his gaze lifting to the ceiling again. She slowly rubbed her cheek against his shoulder blade in a purely comforting gesture. His pain was like a third entity in the room, hovering over them like a wrathful spirit.

Tiger pulled back slightly and unwrapping one arm from around him, reached up to stroke the hair at his nape. Silence spun out, filled with the trust and love between them. Tiger rested her cheek against him again, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. Her eyes drifted closed, a fine line of sadness on her brow, her fingers carding repeatedly through the thick, black hair.

He shuddered once, then twice, the motion transmitting through his body to hers. The gentleness of her touch was stripping his soul bare, leaving him more defenseless than any torture ever could. When he found his voice again, it was hoarse with pent-up emotion.

"She had her whole life ahead of her."

Tiger's eyes opened, tears caught in her lashes. "Fate cast her death, _mon coeur_."

He huffed a short, harsh breath. "So everyone keeps telling me."

"And we will continue to do so until you believe it." Tiger bit her lower lip. There was so much more she wanted to say, but she felt his body tightening, sensed him withdrawing and the walls going up again. Hiding away. Even from her.

She tugged him around to face her and reached for his good hand. Her throat tightened at the desolation in his eyes.

"You are having nightmares," she whispered, tracing a fingertip over the shadow beneath his right eye. He pulled away from the touch, forcing a smile.

"Sleep is highly overrated."

The first spark of temper sharpened her voice. "Do not try and . . ." she waved one hand through the air in a helpless gesture. "make light of this, as if it -- as if _you_ – are unimportant. The nightmares will fade once you have made peace with yourself, _mon amour_. Once you have accepted your role in her death."

"My role?" He tore out of her grip, stumbled backward until he re-captured his balance. Pain flared in his shoulder and chest as the stitches pulled in the wound. "_My role_," he repeated raggedly, desperately trying to shove his traitorous emotions back into their box and slam the lid. They kept seesawing on him. Up. Down. Up. Down. A quiet but snide voice in his mind pointed out lack of sleep had a lot to do with that.

Her eyes, wide and sorrowful, held his fast. " 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts . . .'" her voice trailed off.

Hogan's expression hardened. "I played my part as executioner well, don't you think? Of course, I've had a lot of practice over the years. My instructors always did say I had a talent for hitting small, moving targets. Guess they were right, huh?"

She took a shuddering breath, her heart breaking for him. "Have you talked with anyone?"

"Talk," he snapped. "Everyone wants me to talk about it." He looked away, toward the window. But the shutters were closed and he couldn't see the sun. The tug to be outside, to be away from everyone and everything – even Tiger - was almost overpowering. He breathed deep, mentally straining for control of his rampant emotions.

Tears burned behind her eyes. She closed the distance between them again, needing to be near him. She prayed he would let her. "You already know why you should, _mon amour_." Her hand wrapped around his forearm, feeling the corded muscles draw even tighter. "How many times have you given that same advice to one of your men? I am here now. _Talk to me_."

He ignored her plea, his eyes still fixed upon the closed shutters, as if trying to see through them.

"If not with me, then with Sergeant Kinchloe or Doktor Metzger."

"I don't need to talk with anyone," he growled, trembling with fatigue.

"Please do not be angry with us for wanting to help." She could feel how close he was to collapse. Her fingers tingled from the fine tremor running through him. "You must rest."

With one flex and pull of his arm, he freed himself from her grip. Surprise and hurt flashed in her eyes, but his tone held firm.

"Later."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Klink took a ledger out of the center drawer of his desk and flipped it open. Taking out a pen, he noted Schnitzer's delivery and exchange of Langer for Heidi, right down to the hour of arrival. He paused, studied his notes, and made small checkmarks beside each bit of information as he confirmed their accuracy. He believed in being thorough, as he could fall back on the details for proof should Schnitzer try to overcharge for his services. The elderly dog handler had never tried to do so, but there was always a first time, and Klink had been the victim of too many swindlers in the past not to take precautions.

Satisfied with his records, Klink closed the ledger and opened the drawer. As he was replacing the ledger inside, several sheets of folded paper slipped out from the back and fell in graceful swoops to the floor. He rolled his chair back from the desk and picked them up, then rolled back to the desk. He started to simply return the pages to their place in the ledger, but changed his mind at the last moment and unfolded them upon the desk.

With some thought to one day writing his memoirs, Klink had the year before, started documenting memorable events as well as unusual incidents that occurred in Stalag 13. In looking back over his notes, he reluctantly concluded that many of the more unusual events simply couldn't be included. Most placed him in an unfavorable light, besides being quite unbelievable, despite his extreme care toward detail. Even he could hardly fathom some of the craziness that had happened, and he had witnessed much of it.

He shook his head with a sigh and started to fold the papers again. As he did, his gaze raked down the topmost paper. Several dates popped out at him and he went still, an icy ball forming in the pit of his belly.

He grabbed for the ledger and quickly flipped pages until he found the one he wanted. His eyes cut back and forth between the ledger and his journal notes, comparing dates. Time crawled by while he examined page after page in the ledger and journal.

By the time he was done, the ice in his belly had expanded to glacial proportions.

Klink fell back in his chair and stared blindly at the opposite wall.

"Coincidence," he murmured to the room. "Nothing but coincidence, surely."

On five separate occasions, the unscheduled arrival of Schnitzer's truck had either preceded or immediately followed some outlandish event or some sort of upheaval in the camp. And with each of those events, one man seemed to always be directly in the midst of the pandemonium.

Hogan.

"It means nothing," Klink scoffed under his breath. He glared at the open ledger then jerked forward in his seat, reached out and slammed it closed. "Hochstetter's paranoia is rubbing off on you!"

He jammed the folded papers into the very back of the ledger and shoved them into the desk drawer. Sitting back again, he glanced out the window and loosed a nervous chuckle.

"Oskar Schnitzer is an old man. A dog handler and nothing more. He is no more a Resistance fighter than Hogan is free to come and go as he pleases."

Klink jumped to his feet and went to the sideboard, where he grabbed up the decanter of schnapps. He poured a glass full to the top and quickly downed the alcohol in a single gulp. But the fiery liquid did nothing to dissipate the ball of ice. Abandoning the schnapps, he snatched up his riding crop and cap and fled the office. Fresh air would clear his mind of the ridiculous notion of a dog handling Resistance fighter acting in tandem with an American prisoner of war.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Tiger glared at Hogan, her lips thinning in anger.

"Later? Why not now? Sergeant Kinchloe and the others are in the next room. They will warn us if anyone approaches." She closed the distance between them in several quick strides and grabbed his hand. Their eyes locked, hers daring him to look away.

"You cannot avoid sleep forever, _mon amour_."

His nostrils flared on a quick breath and he swallowed, the sound quite audible to both of them. Tiger moved closer and leaned against him, intending to comfort. To her alarm, she felt him sway on his feet.

"Robert--"

A soft knock rattled the door. Their heads jerked toward it, Tiger glimpsing him grab the bunk's post to steady himself. Seconds ticked by, then the door eased open and Kinch edged inside, his nod and thin smile apologetic.

"Sorry to interrupt, Colonel. Ma'am. But Klink is on the prowl."

"Wonderful," Hogan muttered, knuckles going white on the bunk post. "Where is he now?"

"Olsen?" Kinch called over his shoulder into the common room

"He's talking with Schultz by the well." Olsen pressed one eye to the narrow opening, suddenly thrust his hand out, toward Hogan's quarters. "Wait! He's . . . he's walking back to his headquarters . . . no, he's stopped . . . he's just standing there . . . he's looking this way . . ." Olsen jerked away from the door, eyes wide with alarm. "He's _coming_ this way!"

"Get out there and stall," Kinch ordered. Olsen shot outside and Newkirk took up his place at the door.

Hogan strode out of his quarters, Tiger in tow. Carter slapped at the hidden lever and the bunk entrance yawed open, the ladder descending and settling into place. Hogan helped Tiger climb over the bunk frame and onto the wood slats.

"We'll let you know when it's safe."

Newkirk jerked back from the barracks door and closed it. "Incoming Kraut in ten seconds." He rushed back to the common room table and pulled out his deck of cards.

Hogan looked into the tunnel, confirmed Tiger had gotten down safely, then closed the entrance and turned toward the room. The barracks door opened and Klink walked in, Olsen tagging along behind.

Hogan considered taking a seat at the table. Even with the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream, his weakened body was threatening revolt.

As if sensing he might need help, Kinch circled the table and stopped a few feet away. Hogan shot a sidelong glance his way, then greeted Klink with a smile and indicated the men seated at the table.

"We were just about to start a game of 'Fish', Kommandant. Care to join us?"

"Pull up a bench, Kommandant," Newkirk offered, deftly doling out cards to LeBeau and Carter. "Plenty of room for one more."

Klink glanced at the table, looking awkward and uncertain. Turning away, he slowly walked about the room, hands tucked at his back, glancing from side to side. He paused every so often, then continued on his way, his wandering seemingly without purpose.

"Is there something we can do for you, Kommandant?" Hogan prodded, hoping to hurry the visit along. A wave of dizziness hit without warning, causing him to list to one side. Kinch was suddenly beside him, his shoulder pressing into Hogan's, bracing him up. Hogan took a deep breath, centered his weight and found his balance again. Kinch eased back, but didn't go far.

Klink paused beside Paxton's bunk, then pivoted to face Hogan, his words coming out in a rush. "New mattresses --" He cut himself off, as if shocked by his own words.

"Red Cross inspection coming up, sir?" Hogan fought back another surge of dizziness. Kinch, like a large, silent sentinel, edged close again.

"The mattresses are thin and need to be replaced." Klink's tone was as stiff as his posture.

" 'Thin' is a bit on the generous side," O'Malley said under his breath, eyeing the pallet on his bunk with distaste.

Newkirk glanced up from arranging his cards. "Long as you're kicking in with new mattresses, how about new pillows as well, then? Ones that don't feel like they're stuffed with gravel?"

"Blankets without holes would be great." Carter turned to LeBeau. "Got any jacks?"

An impish twinkle lit Olsen's eyes. "Towels for the showers?"

"Some thick socks would be nice," Paxton added, turning a bland look on Klink. "These floors are freezing at night."

LeBeau grudgingly tossed a card on the table. Carter snatched it up and gave Newkirk a sly grin.

"Kings?"

"Go fish!" Newkirk crowed, triumphant.

"Bread that does not taste like boards would be even nicer," LeBeau grumbled, rearranging his cards. "Along with vegetables that don't taste like a root cellar."

Klink turned to Hogan, disgust dripping from his tone. "This," he huffed, throwing his arms wide. "Is why I don't replace things more often. Someone always tries to take advantage of my generous nature."

Hogan did his best to look contrite. "Sorry, sir."

Klink moved to leave, but stopped and stared at Hogan for several long, intense moments.

"Are you feeling better, Hogan?"

"Yes, sir," Hogan answered, pointedly ignoring Kinch's sidelong glance and O'Malley's arch look.

Klink nodded once. "Good." Without another word, he continued his walk out of the barracks. Olsen cat-footed it back to the door and peeked outside. After several minutes, he confirmed that Klink was back in his headquarters and all was clear. LeBeau jumped up from the table and went to the entrance to let Tiger know it was safe to return.

Hogan's breath left him in a long, drawn-out sigh, his shoulders sagging. "You do a great impression of a crutch, Kinch."

Kinch somberly met his eyes. "How about I do it for you all the way back to your quarters, sir?"

Hogan flicked a glance towards the other room, weighing his chances of making it on his own.

"All is well, now?"

Kinch and Hogan turned. Tiger stood by the table with LeBeau, hands clasped before her. She glanced between them, brow furrowing.

"That was Klink, was it not?"

Hogan nodded, and shot another glance toward his quarters. "That it was."

Braveheart's face darkened with a frown. "He seemed stranger than usual."

Paxton snorted. "How could you tell?"

"He'd been drinking," Olsen said, glancing away from the door. "I smelled it on him."

"Well, then," O'Malley said, briskly rubbing his hands together as he turned a smile on Hogan. "That explains it. Now what say --"

Hogan swayed with another bout of dizziness. Kinch quickly clutched his arm, holding him up.

O'Malley sped across the room. "Colonel or no, it's high time you're off your feet."

Before Hogan knew it he was back in his quarters and sitting on his bunk looking up at Tiger, Kinch and O'Malley.

"Just lie back and rest, sir," O'Malley said, giving him a caring smile. He and Kinch turned to leave, Kinch pausing on the threshold long enough to say with casual ease: "Lunch isn't for three hours."

Hogan rolled his eyes, then turned his head toward Tiger. He looked at her and she looked back. Once they were alone, she sat down beside him, took his hand and laced their fingers together. Her eyes crinkled with amusement.

"It is usually not so difficult to get you into bed."

* * *

_Thank you for reading. To be continued._


	20. Chapter 20

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter 20**

* * *

"Perhaps you would like me to tuck you in?" Tiger gave him a coy look through thick lashes, her voice sweet as honey. 

Hogan quickly shook his head, acutely aware that his men were just on the other side of the door. The very thin door. She moved as if to try and he laughed, knowing she would do it if he let her. The laughter sounded and felt foreign, but he went with it, his heart swelling with love for her.

Hogan caught her by the hand and gently tugged her forward. Noses and lips only inches apart, they stared into each other's eyes.

"Merci," he whispered, gently nuzzling noses with her.

She reached up, lightly caressed his jaw. "Je t'aime, Robert."

They moved those last few inches, their lips meeting in a slow kiss.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Music to my ears," Newkirk murmured from atop his bunk. He grinned up at the ceiling, legs crossed at the ankles, hands clasped behind his head.

"Gosh," Carter said from the table, his eyes wide and voice soft with gratitude and hope. "He laughed. She got him to laugh."

O'Malley, LeBeau and Olsen exchanged smiles. Paxton double-pumped his fist onto his mattress, a grin splitting his face. Braveheart maintained his watch at the door, but a smile briefly lightened his usually somber features.

"A woman's love is a powerful medicine," O'Malley softly told everyone within earshot.

LeBeau, brown eyes sparkling, rested a hand over his heart. "Especially the love of a Frenchwoman."

Kinch turned away from the table and went to the stove for coffee. Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to fully share their relief and high spirits. It _was_ good hearing Hogan laugh again, and he prayed they'd hear more of it after Tiger left. But realistically, just because their CO had laughed, didn't mean he was past the crisis. Only the weeks and months ahead would reveal that.

Above all, Hogan was a protector at heart, a guardian. To have taken the life of a child, one he normally would protect over his own . . .

Kinch sighed, sadness blanketing him. Coffee in hand, he retreated to his bunk, keeping an eye on Hogan's door and his reservations to himself.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Helga looked up from her typewriter when Klink entered the outer office. Quickly snatching a report and pen from her desk, she held them up, extending them almost into his path.

"Herr Kommandant, if you could . . ." Her voice faded as he swept by without even a glance. She lowered the paper and pen to her lap, disappointed that her latest effort had failed to get his signature on the overdue report.

Klink paused before his office door, head down, hand on the doorknob, then spun back, startling her. Tucking his riding crop under his arm, he took the pen and paper from her, slapped the report down on her desk, and scribbled his initials at the bottom of the page. Shoving both pen and paper back into her hands, he flew into his office without a word. Bemused, Helga briefly stared after him before shrugging off the encounter. Slipping the report into an envelope, she dropped it into the outbox for the courier to pick up, and went back to her typing.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

_New mattresses!_ Klink silently jeered, disgusted.

Why should he have to justify his visit to mere prisoners? He was Wilhelm Klink, colonel and Kommandant of Stalag 13. He could go wherever and do whatever he pleased in camp. _Unless_, he quickly and silently amended with a grimace. _Hochstetter, or a higher ranking officer like_ _Burkhalter ordered otherwise. _

Barring that, if he wanted to take a walk about camp, or visit barracks unannounced, then it was within his rights to do so. It was more than his right. It was his duty as Kommandant. Take the prisoners by surprise, catch them at clandestine activities, make them quake in their boots, wondering every minute if his iron fist of discipline was about to smite them down.

He stared across his office at the cuckoo clock's gently swinging pendulum. Now that he thought about it, the mattresses _had_ appeared quite thin. The pillows, too, had seemed in poor condition, though not to the degree that the Englander Newkirk had claimed.

_Thin and in poor condition_, Klink thought, studying his hands. _Just like Hogan._

Shaking such thoughts out of his head, he applied himself to the stacks of paperwork crowding his desk. It wasn't long, however, before he set the work aside and reached for the camp accounts ledger.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Benson waited until Tivoli had secured the entrance and climbed down before turning to make his report.

Hogan had insisted upon walking Tiger to the emergency exit, claiming he felt stronger after the full day of rest. O'Malley had been quietly worried, furious and resigned by turns. Kinch, on the other hand, had appeared unsurprised. Even with his assistance, the climb down had left Hogan exhausted again. His movements were lethargic, a glaze of pain back in his eyes.

"Real quiet out there, sir," Benson said. "Nothing out of the ordinary. The guards are keeping to their routes; the dogs are in a good mood."

"Beautiful night, too." Tivoli's teeth flashed white against the black camouflaging his features. "No moon. Not a breath of wind."

"Thanks for checking it out. Better get to your beds." Hogan hitched his head toward his shoulder and the men, after nodding to Tiger, edged past them. Once they were out of sight, Hogan faced Tiger with a thin smile. "Midnight. Pumpkin time."

She glanced up the ladder, biting her lip, steeling herself to leave. It was time for her to rejoin DuBois and her men, yet it was hard to pry herself away from Hogan's side. He'd put up a good front all day and into the evening for her benefit and everyone else's as well. But it was just that – a front. A mask to set their minds at ease.

It hadn't worked, at least not in her case. She'd seen the flashes of guilt that came and went in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. She was worried about what it would do to him if it continued to gnaw at his soul. She didn't even want to contemplate – but how could she not – what would happen the first time he encountered a situation where he had to defend himself. Would he hesitate to shoot? Would he even pull his weapon? Would he freeze rather than take the chance of shooting the wrong person?

She felt as if she were holding her breath, waiting for disaster to unfold. It was the same feeling she'd had as a child, following her brother Gratien across the frozen pond behind their house. Their parents had forbidden them to walk on the ice. The pond was spring-fed, the ice treacherous. But Gratien, her beloved, daring, and impulsive elder brother, was not to be denied the adventure. They'd waited until their parents had gone to visit an ill neighbor, then grabbed their coats, boots and mittens and ran to the pond. The frozen water had looked solid. But as she took hesitant, careful steps across that murky, pitted ice with her brother's assurances and cheers ringing in her ears, she was trembling, barely breathing, certain the ice would shatter at any moment and plunge her into the freezing water below. The ice had held, though, and she'd made it across, collapsing into the snow at Gratien's feet and sobbing in relief.

That panicky feeling was back, despite Hogan's calm front. Despite the small talk and little jokes, the smiles and even the laughter.

Looking into the carefully shielded, dark-rimmed eyes, she felt her heart thump heavily in her chest. He was treading ice. And she was petrified that it would not hold him.

"Tiger?" Hogan prompted, brow furrowing.

Tiger sent a quick glance into the tunnel at his back. Satisfied they were still alone, she moved closer to him, drawing his head down. His good arm wrapped about her waist, the kiss deepening, quickly growing passionate. For a few moments, thought became impossible, and then Tiger felt another ripple of worry go through her body. Theirs had always been a fiery relationship, but this kiss had the feel of desperation.

"Get out of here, Tiger," Hogan breathed against her ear.

Before she could respond, he stepped back, turned and disappeared into the shadows. She stared after him, finding it hard to breathe.

* * *

_TBC. Thank you for reading._


	21. Chapter 21

_My thanks to Marilyn for her help!_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-one**

"I . . ." Hogan sighed, looking up the ladder to the open entrance above. "Am an idiot." Down had been taxing enough, but up would really test him. He glanced to the side, where Kinch was waiting patiently, one eyebrow cocked, shoulders relaxed and hands deep in his pockets. "Anything you'd like to add?" Hogan mock-growled; holding back a smirk.

Kinch, however, gave his smile free rein, teeth gleaming beneath his black mustache. "Nope."

Hogan took another look up the ladder, and for a moment, wanted to just sit down right there. Instead, he kept his hands locked on the ladder and lowered his pounding head onto the rung in front of him. He'd really thought he was up to it. Even though he hadn't slept as everyone insisted, he'd stayed off his feet all day, and ate and drank everything LeBeau had put before him. So why couldn't he catch a break?

Heat surged into his cheeks and he pressed his forehead hard against the rung. He sounded like a plebe after his first day of basic. _Zip it!_ he fiercely ordered the self-pitying voice in his head.

Kinch moved close, his hand a warm weight upon Hogan's shoulder. "Just take it slow, Colonel. I'm right with you."

Hogan's eyes opened and slid toward him. "You always are." He raised his head and after a deep breath, began the laborious climb to the barracks, his good arm doing most of the work. He thought scaling Everest might have been easier. But he made it, nonetheless. O'Malley was waiting at the top and reached out a hand, steadying him as he stepped over the railing and back onto the blessedly level barracks floor.

"Come sit for a second, sir." O'Malley steered him over to the table and gently urged him down onto the bench. Hogan didn't fight him. He needed time to catch his breath and give his rubbery legs a chance to recover. His chest and shoulder were throbbing again, but it wasn't the lancing pain of before. His head, though, felt as if it were swelling with each beat of his heart.

Carter took a seat to his left, thoughtfully not crowding him. "Your bunk is all ready for you, Colonel. Blankets are turned down and pillow all plumped up." A slight frown creased his forehead. "Plumped as much as possible, anyway. There wasn't much there to work with." His expression suddenly brightened. "You could have mine, too."

Hogan smiled. "You keep it, Carter. Mine will be enough."

"I have hot chocolate for you, _colonel_." LeBeau set the cup on the table near his hand. A tiny curl of steam lazily rose above the rim, lending credence to the hot part.

O'Malley nudged the cup closer when Hogan didn't make a move to pick it up. "It'll chase the chill from the tunnels, sir."

"Made with real chocolate," Newkirk chimed in from the other end of the bench, adding further encouragement.

Hogan had a good idea where LeBeau had managed to find the key ingredient. "Your stash down a bar or two, Newkirk?"

Warmth flooded Newkirk's expression. "Won't miss them a bit, guv'nor."

"Well," Hogan smiled, wrapping his hand around the metal cup. "I can't let your sacrifice and LeBeau's work be for nothing."

Behind him, Kinch frowned, a tingle of unease going down his back. Hogan's behavior seemed off, somehow. Kinch sent a glance around the table, wondering if anyone else had noticed it. O'Malley was watching their CO with a thoughtful expression, but didn't seem concerned. Carter, however, wore an intense look and after a moment, broke his study of Hogan and glanced up at Kinch. The moment their eyes locked, Kinch knew Carter was just as concerned.

Hogan blew into the cup to cool its contents, then took a careful sip. The sweet drink did taste good, and he licked his lips, savoring the rare treat. It wasn't long before he'd drained the cup, his body pleasantly suffused with a flush of heat. He set the empty cup back on the table and glanced around the low-lit barracks. Not one man was sleeping. Sitting or lying down, propped on elbows or leaning against the wall – they were all looking his way, though trying not to be too obvious about it.

"Colonel?" Kinch said at his elbow, startling him. "You need sleep."

Hogan gave him a tight smile. "So does everyone else." Bracing his good hand on the table, he managed to stand without falling. He let Kinch and O'Malley walk him to his quarters, hoping he didn't look like a man on his way to an interrogation session.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Benson flopped onto his side, ground his teeth in frustration and then flipped onto his back again. Meyer, the man occupying the bunk directly below him, sounded off with a guttural growl of warning. Benson grimaced and cringed, shoulders hunching reflexively around his ears. The Bronx native was usually mild-mannered - unless his sleep was disturbed. Then he was as cordial as a wounded grizzly.

Benson rolled toward the outer edge of his bunk. "Sorry, Meyer," he whispered. His bunkmate made a low noise of acceptance, turned over with enough force to rock their bunks, and moments later, was snoring again. Sighing, Benson carefully shifted onto his back and tucked his hands beneath his head. He couldn't shake the conversation he'd had with Tivoli from his head.

After leaving Hogan and Tiger, they'd walked back to the locker room to clean up and change back into their uniforms. Tivoli had been oddly subdued and upon reaching the locker room, came to a sudden stop, put his hands on his hips and bowed his head. Benson opened his locker, didn't see Tivoli beside him anymore, and turned back in surprise.

"You all right?"

Tivoli looked up, his brows drawn into a frown. "Yeah. But the colonel's not."

Benson tossed his gloves and cap into the locker and started unbuttoning his shirt. "That's kind of obvious, isn't it, Tiv? You know how bad he was wounded. He almost died. A guy just doesn't bounce back from something like that."

Tivoli's eyes lowered again. A long silence ensued and then he straightened with a jerk, chin going up and jaw firming.

"You're right." He stalked across the room to his locker and yanked the door open so hard Benson swore it would come off its hinges. Tivoli stared into the open locker, still gripping the door's handle. Benson's gaze swung from the white-knuckled grip to the Roman-nosed profile.

"What's going on with you?"

The swarthy jaw bunched and a few seconds passed while Tivoli continued to study the inside of his locker. Benson stayed quiet as well, giving his friend time to come to grips with whatever was troubling him.

Tivoli finally blew out a deep sigh, his eyes cutting back to Benson.

"Have you ever thought about it?"

A flippant remark sprang to mind, but Benson stifled it. His friendship with the fiery Italian was still new, and he could count on one hand – and still have a few fingers to spare – the number of times Tivoli had opened up about something even remotely personal. He didn't want to damage that trust, and so made certain his voice remained mild.

"I could answer better if I understood what 'it' is, Tiv."

Tivoli swallowed. "How do you think you'd react if you killed a kid by mistake?"

Benson sucked in a slow breath. "I don't know. And I hope I never get the chance to find out."

"Yeah," Tivoli said softly, looking back into his locker. "Me, neither."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Klink rolled over in bed, threw back the duvet and groped in the dark for the pull-chain to his bedside lamp. Blinking in the bright pool of light, he grabbed his boots, threw his coat on over his nightshirt and hurried out of his quarters.

Langenscheidt met him outside at the base of the steps. Klink fired off a hastily prepared story for why he was out in the middle of the night, waved off the guard's offer of an escort, and quickly walked across the yard to his headquarters.

It took him three tries before he managed to put his key in the lock. Stomping a foot in frustration, he wrangled the door open, quickly shut it and crossed the dark outer office to his own. He didn't bother turning on any lights. The room was small, he had a direct path to his office, and in all the time he'd been there, the furniture had never once been rearranged.

Once in his office, he shut the door, flipped on the lights and rounded his desk, stooping to grab up the metal waste can without breaking stride. With a glance at the cuckoo clock, he sat behind his desk, yanked the ledger from the center drawer and slid the journal pages out.

Dropping the pages onto the desk blotter, he reached into his coat pocket for the lighter he used to light the cigars of generals, majors and visiting dignitaries. A grim smile twisted his lips as he glanced at the shiny, silver case. It would serve another purpose this time.

Shifting the waste can to set between his feet, he sent a quick glance at the door and window –making doubly certain they were closed – then flipped the lighter open. It lit with the first flick of his thumb. He hesitated a brief moment, hypnotized by the flame's flickering dance.

The magnitude of what he was about to do struck him again and his stomach lurched. With a deep breath, he shook off the sensation and squared his shoulders. He'd lain awake for hours thinking and finally made his choice. Now that he had, he would see it through.

Picking up the journal pages, he held them over the waste can and put the lighter's flame to the corner. The fire fed greedily upon the paper, leaping high. The pages separated and curled, charred bits falling into the waste can, their edges flickering feebly as the embers gasped their last.

Klink dropped what remained of the pages into the waste can, watching carefully until every last bit had been consumed. He looked up at the clock opposite his desk. Barely three minutes had passed since he'd entered.

He checked the waste can again and nodded in satisfaction. Nothing remained of his notes and the fire was dead. Returning the waste can to its customary place, he shoved the ledger back in the desk, grabbed a file and hastened out of his headquarters.

"Did you find it, Herr Kommandant?" Langenscheidt peered up at him from the base of the steps. Klink held up the file for him to see.

"It was right where I'd left it," Klink huffed, pretending to be disgusted with himself. He stepped off the porch, moving at a more leisurely pace than when he'd arrived. His task accomplished, he felt almost giddy with relief.

An earnest expression fell over Langenscheidt's angular face and his voice grew hesitant. "I would be most happy to walk you back to your quarters, Herr Kommandant."

Langenscheidt was always so eager to please that denying his offer a second time seemed almost a punishment. Klink turned to him with a bright smile, knowing he'd made the second right choice of the night when the guard instantly smiled back.

They started back to Klink's quarters, walking side by side at a sedate pace. Langenscheidt glanced overhead.

"It is a beautiful night, is it not, Herr Kommandant?"

Klink looked up at the stars shining against a pristine black sky. "It is indeed, Langenscheidt. It is indeed."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan fought his way out of the nightmare, stifling a scream before he woke everyone in the barracks. Using his good arm, he slowly pushed himself upright, grimacing at the clammy feel of his pajama shirt sticking to his skin. The stitches in his wound itched, the hot chocolate was a sour burn in his stomach, and his ear stung. He touched it and wasn't surprised to find his twisting and thrashing had knocked the scab off. Grabbing a handful of blanket, he wiped the blood away, hoping O'Malley wouldn't notice anything in the morning.

Resting his forearms on his bent knees, he covered his face with his hands. The nightmares were changing. Marta wasn't always the sole focus now. His men were starting to appear, too, each one meeting a grisly end before his eyes. And each time, he was the cause of their deaths.

He pressed a fist against his lips, his body quaking from the effort of staying silent. Tears slid, unnoticed from beneath his clenched eyelids.

There would be no more sleep for him tonight.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. To be continued._


	22. Chapter 22

_My thanks to my beta, Marilyn: Polisher of rough edges and voice of logic and encouragement. _

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-two**

Hogan gazed out over Stalag 13 with hooded eyes, body at a comfortable lean against the barracks' wall, shoulders relaxed and hands curled loose in his jacket pockets. The sun shone down on him, washing the compound in brilliant afternoon light and painting sharp-edged shadows on the ground. Beyond the perimeter fence, the trees swayed in the gentle wind, leaves flickering in the sunlight.

He concentrated, trying to imagine himself outside the fences, beyond the guards, the guns and the dogs. After several minutes of fighting to block out his surroundings, he gave up and rested his head back on the wall. As if to comfort him, a breeze danced over his cheeks like a lover's caress, stirring a sigh that seemed to come from his toes.

He was ready to be out there. After a month, the wounds were nothing more now than scar tissue and deep muscle aches when he pushed too hard. He'd bulked up to his prior weight and then some, eating everything LeBeau put before him without complaint. Walks around the camp, light weight lifting and time in the ring with Kinch had given him back muscle tone and stamina.

And yet his men still treated him like he was made of bone china. Fearful that the wrong word - _the wrong name_ - might cause him to shatter before their eyes.

The concerned looks, the careful way his men acted and talked around him, the nightmares, the hours of staring at the walls and walking around the same places – the routine – was driving him toward the edge. He'd have bolted out of camp at the first opportunity if not for the one reason more powerful than any fence or shackle. His men. After all they'd done to get him back to health, slipping out in the dark of the night and leaving them to worry was no way to repay them.

He contemplated the ground at his feet. Tonight's mission could barely be classified as a mission; a simple drop that the greenest recruit could handle. One by one, his men had volunteered to take it. And one by one, he'd turned them down. He needed to get out. Away from everything. Even them. If only for a few hours.

Once the mission was behind him, he hoped their anxiety would disappear and the well-meaning questions and not-so-covert surveillance would stop.

He lifted his head again and stared across the compound at the wooded hills, mentally tracing his route. Three clicks to the drop coordinates, taking a path so familiar he could travel it in his sleep. Pick up the package and return to camp.

To quote Newkirk: 'Piece of cake'.

He blinked, emerging from his thoughts when he heard the barracks door open. There was a pause, and then quiet footsteps approached, their familiar cadence proclaiming their owner's identity. The footsteps stopped at his side and over the quiet brush of wind by his ears, came the rustle of cloth.

"Beautiful day." Kinch's voice was soft, wistful. "Days like this, Mama would pack a lunch of hushpuppies, chicken, and cream pie and we'd all go the park for a picnic. I 'd have glass after glass of ice cold tea in between stuffing my face and pestering my sister."

"Good days," Hogan responded, voice as distant as the horizon.

Kinch glanced at him, opened his mouth and then decided to drop any further attempts at small talk. The tense line of Hogan's profile didn't invite it.

"Baker just took a message from Kurt," Kinch said, putting his eyes front again. "He's coming tonight. Should be here around 2100."

Hogan's hands clenched under cover of his jacket. Kurt had been coming at least twice a week, ostensibly to monitor his progress. Hogan knew better and didn't walk to talk anymore than he did the first time.

"He knows I'm going out?" Hogan's voice stayed cool, his hands clenched.

Kinch flicked another glance at him. "Baker gave him the code phrase. Kurt either chose to ignore it or decided it didn't matter because he repeated he was coming."

Hogan's jaw twitched. Twenty-one hundred. _If_ Kurt was on time and _if_ he didn't insist on any lengthy discussions and _if_ there wasn't a problem . . . Ice flashed through Hogan's blood. His head whipped toward Kinch.

"Is there a problem at the farm?"

"He didn't say there was."

"Did he give _any_ reason why he was coming?"

Kinch shook his head. "No, sir." A slight smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. "Social call, maybe?"

Hogan huffed under his breath and looked back toward the hills, squinting in the sun. "Still nothing from Tiger or DuBois?"

"No." The answer was heavy with regret.

The lack of information was maddening. Two weeks before, Hochstetter had nearly caught both operatives in an ambush. DuBois had been wounded in a prolonged shoot-out, and three of his men killed. Tiger had gotten away unscathed, but not before she'd had the satisfaction of cutting Hochstetter down.

Klink had visited Hogan the next morning. At the end of a rambling conversation covering everything from the weather to Berlin Betty's latest radio broadcast, he had suddenly fallen silent, his expression as neutral as Hogan had ever seen it. Quietly, his face still studiously blank, Klink had shared the news of the shooting. His terse statement that Hochstetter was not expected to live gave Hogan little comfort. Hochstetter was done hunting for the foreseeable future if not eternity, but Tiger, DuBois and his men had already paid the price for it.

"I'm sure they're fine," Kinch said with confidence, alluding to DuBois, Tiger and their men having gone to ground. "We'd have heard if it were otherwise."

"Maybe."

"It could have been worse," Kinch continued in a near whisper.

Hogan merely nodded, trying not to envision 'worse'. He'd seen it enough in his nightmares.

Sounds floated around them on the breeze. Carter and Newkirk running back and forth, Carter yelling to Newkirk to pass the basketball, Benson and Tivoli hooting and hollering, feet dancing and arms waving, guarding the basket, trying to distract the rival team. Schultz, from around the corner of Barracks Four, laughing at something. The dogs' barks and yips from the kennels as Langenscheidt filled their water dishes.

Hogan watched Kinch carefully out of the corner of his eye. Kinch looked calm, even serene. Yet beneath that glassy-smooth façade, a nimble mind hummed, hard at work. Apparently realizing he was being watched, Kinch's dark eyes swung toward him.

"You know, I was just thinking that it's been a long time since I was --"

"Kinch." Hogan's voice was soft and even, yet edged with warning.

One of Kinch's eyebrows rose and fell, his expression going flat with concern. "Colonel, I may be out of line, but I really think one of us should go with you tonight."

"Look," Hogan sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. "I'm just going to come right out and say this and you can pass it along to the rest of the guys. No one's going along tonight to watch my back, hold my hand, or talk me through whatever it is you all think is going to happen to me out there. I'm grateful for everything everyone's done for me, but I want some time alone." He paused, then added, "Really alone." A pang went through him as he heard the sharpness in his tone, but the words were said. He couldn't take them back.

Kinch, on the other hand, didn't say a word in response, though it looked like he had plenty on the tip of his tongue. Hogan deliberately went back to looking beyond the fences.

He heard Kinch's feet shuffle, could practically feel the frustration pouring off him. But the silence held. Finally, he heard footsteps walk away and the barracks door open and close.

Hogan pinched the bridge of his nose. The night couldn't come fast enough.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch was lying in his bunk, mulling over his conversation with Hogan when the door to the barracks opened. Newkirk and Carter walked in, smiling and sweating from their basketball game.

"Whoo," Carter breathed, wiping at his face with his forearm. "That was fun." LeBeau scooped an old towel off the table and tossed it to him. Carter dabbed at his face. Newkirk brushed by, shirt stained with damp and hair clinging to his forehead.

Olsen rolled over in his bunk and onto his side, propping his head on one hand. "Who won the game?"

Newkirk turned, brushing his chest with curled fingers. "Brains against brawn, mate. Brains against brawn."

Olsen smirked. "Brawn triumphed again, huh?"

"Just setting them up is all," Newkirk protested, bracing hands on hips. "For next time. Letting them get all full of themselves and get overconfident. They won't know what hit them."

Olsen leaned out over the edge of his bed to make eye contact with Paxton on the lower bunk. "Ten to one in favor of brawn taking the next one, too."

"Twenty to one," Paxton swiftly countered.

Braveheart looked up from the carving he was whittling from a piece of firewood. Shavings lay scattered upon his crossed legs. Kinch had been concerned about those shavings – concerned the guards would see them and search for the knife that had made them. But Braveheart was always careful to brush them into a pile that he tossed into the woodstove for burning. "I'll take those odds."

Newkirk glared from one to the other. "So good to know we've got the support of our mates."

Olsen chortled. "I've seen Benson's hook shot."

"And I've seen _your_ defense," Paxton drawled.

"There's not a ruddy thing wrong with my defense."

"Nothing except it's got as many holes as one of my momma's lace doilies," Carter chuckled. Ignoring Newkirk's muttering about betrayal and 'Benedict Arnolds', he balled the towel up and took aim at the communal laundry basket. A lift of his arm and hand, a flick of his wrist with a good follow-through, and the towel made a clean landing in the basket. LeBeau let out a muted cheer and Carter took a bow.

Kinch rose to put some coffee on to heat. He set the dented metal pot on the woodstove, glanced back at Carter and Newkirk. "Was the colonel still outside the barracks when you came in?"

Carter's expression fell, the disappointment in his eyes easy to read. "He was just walking away."

"Didn't say much," Newkirk said, sliding onto one of the benches and wincing as a muscle pulled. "But then, that's the case most days now, isn't it?"

Carter studied the floor, shoulders slumping from more than weariness. "He looks like the colonel and he sounds like the colonel when he does talk. But he's not the colonel. He's been different ever since . . . He hardly smiles . . . or laughs anymore."

LeBeau thought a moment. "He smiled yesterday after roll call."

Paxton nodded. "Yeah, he did."

"Doesn't count." Newkirk slowly drummed his fingertips on the table.

Kinch turned from the woodstove, coffee forgotten. "Why not?"

Newkirk's eyes flicked up to him, then back down again. "He was talking with Klink." Taking out his cards, Newkirk idly shuffled them with one hand, fingers easily manipulating the cards into doing his bidding. "Smiling because he had to." He lifted his head, bared his teeth to show them what he meant.

Olsen grimaced. "Fake."

O'Malley sat up on his bunk where he'd been listening, an out-dated, dog-eared magazine lying face down on his stomach. He tossed it aside, the pages fluttering. "Even good actors can't hide everything from people who know them well."

Carter glanced up sharply, certain no one present could claim to truly know Hogan.

"He's been acting with us for quite awhile now." Kinch said quietly. Behind him, the pot rattled as the coffee came to a boil. "Smiling when we expect him to—"

"Laughing in all the right places," LeBeau murmured, brow furrowed with sadness.

The memory of strained laughter sent Kinch's spirits even lower. He took the pot off the stove and set it and some cups on the table, then dropped onto one of the benches. He stared at the pot for a moment, but found he wasn't as thirsty for coffee as he'd thought.

Newkirk tsked under his breath, slowly shook his head as he stared down at his cards. "All of that. Except for the talking. He's not doing much of _that_, remember."

Kinch couldn't argue that observation. The frequency of Hogan's silences had increased over the past weeks, and with each one, it felt like his distance had, too.

The look LeBeau turned upon Kinch was almost accusing. "He is worse, not better."

"Leaving him be isn't working this time," Carter's voice was low and sad, echoing the melancholy that had fallen over them.

Braveheart's whittling paused, curiosity lighting his ruddy features. "_This_ time?"

O'Malley twisted to look back at him. "It happened before you came. His brother was killed in the Pacific theatre." He paused, eyes gone distant with memory. "He holed up in his quarters. We left him alone and after a few days, he pulled out of it."

"Seemed to, anyroad," Newkirk muttered, expression dark.

Braveheart grunted, laid the carving upon his bunk and sheathed his knife in the scabbard hidden in his boot. So far, the carving was just sharp angles and scratches that didn't look much of anything. Kinch had looked at it one day, but hadn't been able to picture the end result. Carter, on the other hand, had examined the piece of wood with great interest, turning it over and over for several minutes. After exchanging soft words with Braveheart, he had slapped one of the thick shoulders and walked away, wearing a grin that had stuck around for some time.

"Apples and oranges. That was the pure grief of a brother losing a brother. This is grief twisted with the guilt and pain of killing a child. A poisonous mixture." Braveheart picked the carving up again and cradled it in his hand, slowly rubbed his calloused thumb against its side.

"Something's sure eating Colonel Hogan alive," Olsen muttered, his devil-may-care attitude dampened by concern. "His nightmares aren't going away."

Newkirk thumped the deck of cards face down on the table. "All this time and space has done fat lot of good at helping the guv'nor. The rest of you lot can set around on your duffs and hope it'll all blow over and be sun and roses for him again. But _I'm_ going to do something."

"What're you going to do, Newkirk?" Carter's steady gaze bore into him, his tone half-daring. "Corner him and demand he talk about what he's feeling?"

Newkirk stared back, too surprised by his friend's challenge to snap off a reply.

"Yeah, 'cause that would work _really_ well," Paxton scoffed sarcastically, folding his arms.

"How about tying him down and threatening him with one my sister's cookies?" A smile teased at Olsen's mouth, his playful nature making a minor comeback.

Braveheart quirked an eyebrow, solemnly waggled his head. "That would do it for _me_."

LeBeau made a noise of disgust, apparently fed up with their attempts at lightening the dark mood. Kinch stood, sensing they were headed toward a heated argument rather than a solution.

"Okay, fellas." At his soft warning, everyone fell silent and every eye turned to him. "We can't force him to talk to us. It'd just chase him further away."

"So . . ." O'Malley took a gulping breath, obviously fighting down emotion. "What do we do, Kinch?"

Kinch hitched one shoulder in an abbreviated shrug and said the only thing he could.

"Don't give up on him."

* * *

_Thank you for reading and for staying with the story to this point! _


	23. Chapter 23

_Thank you to Marilyn Penner for her help and encouragement, and thank you to everyone who has reviewed and stuck with the story so far! _

**

* * *

****Chapter Twenty-three**

Hogan glanced at the clock and went back to getting ready, his men looking on as they had the last time he'd gone out.

"Full moon, guv'nor," Newkirk said from behind him. "Bright as day out there."

Hogan finished tying his boots, then stood and grabbed the black shirt hanging in his locker. Unlike the turtleneck he'd worn that night, the shirt bore not a single bullet hole or bloodstain. Trying not to remember the last time he had done this, he slid his arms into the sleeves and rolled his shoulders to check the fit. There was plenty of room for movement and a small smile briefly slipped out. LeBeau, with his keen eye for detail, had noticed the additional muscle in his shoulders and arms and had tailored the shirt accordingly.

Carter appeared in Hogan's peripheral vision, looking wan. "Gottschalk has the south fence line with Fritz, Seiler's on the east with Langer, Schwab's west with Wolfie and Ostermann's north with Malfus."

Eyes focused on the floor before his locker, Hogan buttoned the shirt and tucked it into his trousers. He didn't anticipate any trouble from the patrolling guards and dogs. Unless something warranted otherwise, the guards usually stuck to their routes and the dogs had been trained not to sound an alarm when they scented him.

"Klink's asleep in his quarters, _colonel_," LeBeau announced, his demeanor subdued. "All the guards are on station and the camp is quiet."

"The radio's been quiet, too. Baker's monitoring." Kinch fielded Hogan's sharp glance without flinching, feeling no guilt at having Baker cover for him.

Hogan reached into his locker again, hesitated when he saw the gun belt and weapon hanging from a hook at the back. For a moment, he could only stare at it, and then - aware of his men looking on - he completed the motion. Grasping the belt's cool, smooth leather, he pulled it out of the locker. It hung from his hand for the first time in a month, swinging slightly. Slowly, he gripped the gun and slid it free of the holster, laying the belt on the bench. The gun felt heavier than normal, clumsy in his hand. Frowning, he studied it carefully, checking the chamber, safety, sights and grip.

Out of his sight, his men traded glances. Kinch rounded the end of the bench and gestured to the gun in Hogan's hand.

"Is there a problem with how Benson cleaned it, sir?"

Hogan continued to study the gun, eyes tracing its curves and lines. It was definitely his. The gun was spotless, the metal shining, the grip thoroughly wiped of oil to keep it from slipping in his hand. He thumbed the safety on and off several times, the mechanism working smooth as ever.

There was nothing wrong it.

With a mental shake of his head, he tore his gaze from the gun and opened the box of cartridges. He started loading the gun, purposely keeping his mind on the process and nothing else. If his men thought his movements more methodical than before, they didn't remark on it. The silence grated at Hogan's nerves, the demand for them to leave begged to be released.

He had just finished loading the last of the cartridges when he heard someone in the tunnels. Kurt walked into the room, his expression resolute. Hogan automatically checked the time.

Nineteen forty-five. He was early.

Hogan glanced Kurt's way long enough to nod a greeting, then returned his gun to its holster and belted it around his waist. The leather sat too low on his hips, another sign the weight work had changed his physique. He unbuckled the belt, hitched it higher and refastened it, this time moving the buckle one notch inward.

The next few minutes were filled with the men's warm greetings and small talk. Hogan filtered out most of it, occupying himself with double-checking his gun and ammunition again. He tuned back in completely when Kurt mentioned how easy it was to see by the moon's brilliant light.

"All the more reason you should have stayed at home," Hogan murmured, giving him another sideways glance.

Kurt ignored the comment. "I come with news."

LeBeau surged toward him, wearing a hopeful smile. "Of Tiger and DuBois?"

Hogan grabbed his gloves and faced Kurt, as eager as LeBeau to hear the answer.

Kurt shook his head. "I am sorry, no."

Hogan pivoted back to his locker, fingered his gloves without putting them on.

"What's your news, then?" Kinch asked, keeping one eye on Hogan.

"Hochstetter woke this morning." Kurt paused when LeBeau and Newkirk growled out their displeasure. Hogan displayed no reaction whatsoever, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself. "His recovery will be difficult and there is a possibility that he will no longer be fit for field duty."

A smile of pure malice split Newkirk's face. "Now isn't that a pity."

LeBeau raised a fist, grinning ear to ear. "Tiger!"

The room grew quiet, everyone suddenly having nothing to say. Hogan tensed and in the next moment, heard what he had expected and dreaded. The men filed out of the room at Kurt's request, throwing glances over the shoulders. Hogan sat heavily on the bench and stared straight ahead, at the inside of his locker. Kurt stepped over the bench and took a seat beside him.

"So . . ." Kurt sighed. "You are going out."

It was stating the obvious, an attempt to break the tension between them. Hogan's lips quirked and he turned his head, meeting Kurt's eyes directly for the first time.

"All dressed up and ready to go," Hogan quipped. Kurt hummed acknowledgement, raked his eyes over Hogan from head to toe, his gaze faltering only an instant on the gun belt. Hogan felt a prickle of irritation.

"It's a simple assignment, Kurt. There and back."

"Simple," Kurt repeated, nodding. "Do you have far to travel?"

Hogan just looked at him. Kurt shrugged.

"If it is as simple as you say, perhaps we could meet later this evening and I could take you to see Mutter and Vater."

"No."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Newkirk edged toward the doorway. Kinch reached out, grabbed him by the back of his collar and tugged him away from the tunnel. Newkirk craned his neck to look back at him, offering a sheepish smile.

"Just thought I heard someone, is all."

"And I thought I'd made it clear we'd give Kurt a chance to talk with him in private."

Newkirk looked away. "Did you? Must have missed that part."

Kinch mock-growled, lightly shook him by the collar.

Carter studied the empty tunnel, envisioning Kurt and Hogan. "Do you think he'll finally get through to him this time?"

LeBeau raised his eyes heavenward. "S'il vous plait!"

"Amen to that," Baker seconded, keeping one ear tuned to the radio waves coming through his headset.

Kinch released his hold on Newkirk's collar, but gave him an arch look, warning against further attempts at leaving the room. Newkirk straightened his collar, shoved his hands in his pockets and joined Carter along the wall.

"What if. . ." Carter said softly, still studying the tunnel. "Nothing Kurt says makes a difference? What if the colonel still won't talk and going out tonight doesn't help? What if this is the way he's always going to be now?"

Kinch did not want to contemplate that eventuality and by the looks on the others' faces, neither did they. Kinch went to Carter and lightly rested a hand on his shoulder. "Let's not borrow trouble."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kurt could not believe Hogan had denied the suggestion without a moment's thought.

"They wish to see you, Robert. Mutter especially."

"There's not enough time."

Kurt frowned. "You've always made the time before, without fail. She is worried about you and wishes to talk with you."

"Tell her not to worry. I'm doing okay."

"I have told her, Robert, and I am tired of telling her because words won't calm her fears. Only seeing you and speaking with you will accomplish that. As for the 'okay' part, I have my doubts about that claim."

Hogan lurched to his feet and slammed the locker shut, leaving his hand planted against the door. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, his jaw flexed. "I'm dealing with this the best way I know, Kurt."

Kurt stood, too, wanting to be at least close to eye level. "You don't have to 'deal' with it alone."

"It's the only way I know," Hogan repeated slowly, through clenched teeth.

Kurt coughed out a sound that might have been a chuckle. "What is that you've told me? It's never too late to teach an old cat new tricks."

Hogan's mouth twitched, the hard line of his jaw relaxing. "Too late for this old cat." He faced Kurt, his hand sliding off the locker to his side. Sensing the action as a prelude to leaving, Kurt grappled for something to forestall it.

"Robert, I understand how you feel--"

"You know _nothing_ about how I feel," Hogan cut in, voice cracking with fury.

Kurt felt a surge of hope at finally getting a visceral response. He crowded close to Hogan, stared directly into the dark eyes.

"That is where _you_ are wrong," Kurt growled, hands tensing into fists. "Let me tell you a story, Robert."

Hogan's head jerked up. "I don't have time –"

Kurt lashed out, grabbing a fistful of black shirt. The glint in Hogan's eyes warned he was perhaps moments away from getting his head knocked off. Kurt stood his ground, his own anger kindling hotter.

"Yes, you do!" He shoved against Hogan's chest, feeling the muscles beneath his fist coil tighter, on the verge of violence. "This won't take long."

Hogan glared, every bit of his Irish temper on display.

"If I let go, do you promise to not run out of here?"

Seconds passed and then Hogan's head bobbed once. Kurt released his grip and drew in a deep breath. This might be the only chance he had left and it would be hard. Hogan was not the only one who had trouble sharing innermost thoughts and emotions.

Kurt crossed his arms, steeling himself for the pain of reopening old wounds. "You know the circumstances of my brother's death —"

"Philip," Hogan interrupted, impatient. "Yeah."

Kurt hung onto his temper by sheer force of will. "But . . ." his hard stare demanded he be allowed to finish speaking. "You know nothing about my wife's."

Hogan's face went slack with shock. "You were married?"

Kurt frowned, unable to prevent his hurt and confusion from showing. "Is this so hard to believe?"

Hogan's expression softened. "I'm not surprised that someone would marry you, Kurt. I'm surprised because this is the first I've heard of a Mrs. Kurt Metzger. No one, including Romie and Josef, have ever mentioned her, and there's not a single picture of her anywhere in their home. No mementos, no . . . " He swept a hand out to the side before letting it fall. _"Anything_ to even _suggest_ that she ever existed in your life or theirs."

Pain sliced through Kurt's stomach, momentarily robbing him of breath. Perhaps he'd not banished his own demons and let go of the past as completely as he had thought. "I wished it to be so. After Evangeline's death, I could not bear to see her picture or even hear her name. I asked my parents to remove anything that might remind me of her. I understand now how selfish I was to demand such a thing. They had loved her too. Yet, they did as I asked."

Kurt looked away a moment, gathering strength to go on. "Part of why I was so angry with you, was because you'd nearly gotten yourself killed again." He looked back, seeing Hogan's mouth press into a hard line. This was an old topic of discussion between them, one Kurt knew better than to pursue again. "The larger part," he continued in a rush, voice quavering as he dug deeper into his own psyche. "Was because I had placed my anger with myself upon your head."

Hogan's eyebrows flew upward. "Huh?" He checked the time again, frowned, but motioned for Kurt to go on.

Kurt felt a weak smile come and go. A complicated surgical procedure, he could do. Expressing his feelings with any coherence was something else entirely. "I saw me in you, Robert. I felt Evangeline died because I was negligent. I believed --" he grimaced, fighting not to give in to a sudden, massive wave of grief. "that I had killed her."

A shadow passed across Hogan's expression. Kurt sighed, brushed a hand back through his hair. The story had to be told. And maybe, in trying to help Robert, he might also help himself.

"It was January. Evangeline was seven months pregnant and I had just finished medical school. I was the newest doktor at the Krankenhaus and full of passion for my profession." He paused, breath shuddering as the years faded. Hogan remained quiet, his attention unwavering.

"We lived in a small house several kilometers from Mutter and Vater." Another faint smile briefly lightened his face when an image of the house appeared before him. "It was not much, but we loved it as it was all ours. One evening just before sundown, a man came to our door and asked that I go with him to a farm some distance away. His daughter had been trampled by one of their horses and he was afraid to move her."

Kurt licked his lips, his gaze losing focus as he pictured the events of that night. "Evangeline had not felt well that day, but seemed fine when I left. She kissed me good-bye and I told her that I loved her and that I would be home as soon as possible." He returned to the present with a blink, and found Hogan watching him with an unreadable expression.

"It was a long night. The girl had been badly hurt by the horse's hooves. Head injury, broken jaw and ribs, cuts, abrasions . . . I stayed until mid-morning, until she awoke and I felt confident she was out of danger. After telling the parents I would return in a few days to check on her, I left for home."

Hogan seemed to have stopped breathing. They stared at each other a moment and then Kurt turned away, suddenly cold.

"All appeared normal when I returned home. I called for Evangeline, but she didn't answer. I found her on the floor in our bedroom, not far from our bed. I . . . I thought at first that she'd fallen and was unconscious. But the first touch of my hand on her face dispelled that prayer." His voice fell to a whisper. "I remember screaming and pulling her into my arms, rocking and begging, praying and crying until it was night again. It was days before I could say anything above a whisper." He shuddered, drew himself out of that terrible grief with difficulty. "The autopsy showed that an artery had burst and she had hemorrhaged internally. The pain must have been severe, and she must have been so afraid and called out for me. But I was gone and she and our baby died."

Silence. And then he heard Hogan whisper, "I'm sorry."

Kurt pivoted to face him, unashamed of the tears wetting his cheeks. "So you see, Robert. I know _exactly_ how you feel because I lived for years blaming myself for Evangeline and Kara's deaths. If I'd paid more attention to her condition rather than run off into the night, if I'd not been so arrogant to think that nothing would happen to her, if I'd stayed home . . . if, _if, if_!" He scrubbed a hand across his face, wiping at the tears.

Hogan's hand twitched by his side, then tentatively rose and came to rest upon Kurt's shoulder. His voice was soft with compassion.

"You couldn't have known."

"Nor could you," Kurt replied just as quietly, holding Hogan's gaze. He prayed that the words would truly be heard and accepted. Sorrow washed over him as Hogan's expression grew shuttered once more. Sensing the chance slipping away, Kurt grabbed at Hogan's hand before it could be taken back and gripped it hard.

"Choices, Robert. It is all about choices. And fate and acceptance. And most of all; forgiveness. Karl and Margaret _chose_ to ignore Marta's pleas to search for Mozart. Marta _chose_ to leave her home against their wishes. _You chose_ to shoot rather than be killed. Karl and Margaret must learn to accept their choice and forgive themselves, just as you must accept that you are but a man and not omniscient. Forgive yourself."

Hogan pulled his hand free and stepped back. "I've got to go."

Kurt watched, heart sinking while his friend put more and more distance between them. At the door, Hogan paused just long enough to say over his shoulder, "Be careful going home."

"Think about what I said," Kurt called back. But the doorway was empty, the tunnel silent.

* * *

_To be continued. Thank you for reading. Please take a moment to review._


	24. Chapter 24

_My thanks to Marilyn for giving this several looks._

* * *

Hogan strode for the emergency exit, his conversation with Kurt rattling around in his head. Grimacing, he pushed it out of his mind, relegating it to another time. His head had to be on the mission, his thoughts focused. Anything else was an invitation for trouble. 

His stride slowed as he came within sight of the emergency exit. Someone waited in the shadows below the hatch, arms folded and feet braced comfortably apart. Drawing nearer, details grew clearer and he was able to identify Braveheart as the solid barrier between him and the freedom above. His expression must have given away his irritation because a smile flickered over the Native American's face.

"I'm not here to stop you, Colonel; just to give you this." Braveheart unfolded his arms and held out his hand, uncurling his fingers. A narrow strip of knotted leather was wrapped around his fingers and on his palm lay a carved eagle with backswept wings and talons thrust forward. "It's a talisman. For luck and protection."

Bitter comments about luck swelled in Hogan's throat, his face flushing with heat. He was instantly shamed of the reaction. The carving was a generous gift, made with obvious care and thought. Wanting to be respectful of the effort and Braveheart's beliefs, he attempted a smile.

"Thanks." It was weak, and the best he could do. Braveheart graciously nodded and pushed his hand out just a little farther, his intention clear. Containing a sigh, Hogan lifted the talisman from his palm, then faltered, uncertain what to do with it. Braveheart's lips took on a slight upturn.

"It must be worn to work, sir."

Hogan slipped the loop of leather cord over his head and dropped the talisman down the neck of his shirt. It settled against his chest, slightly lower than his silver crucifix and the false set of dogtags. The wood and the extra weight felt odd against his skin.

With a nod, Braveheart turned aside, leaving a clear path to the ladder. Hogan brushed by and went up the ladder and once the area above was clear, left the tunnel without a single look back.

Outside and feeling as if he could breathe again for the first time in weeks, Hogan crouched beside the stump concealing the entrance and lowered the hatch. Ostermann and Malfus had just passed by. That left him five minutes to clear the area before they made another pass on their route. The searchlight's beam was swinging around again, would reach him in only seconds. Hogan pushed to his feet and left Stalag 13 behind.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Come in, Mutter."

Romie ignored Josef's quiet demand, her eyes never leaving a particular copse of trees. Robert always chose to come from that direction, for reasons he had never shared when asked. His response, as with any question that touched upon something he thought should remain unknown, was always a smile and deft change of subject.

With a sigh that carried the length of the porch, Josef left the doorway and walked to her side. A blanket fell upon her shoulders and was gently tucked close about her. Josef brushed a kiss to her temple. Romie nestled against him, warmed more by his presence than the blanket.

"At least sit down," Josef insisted. She nodded, tore her gaze from the silver-brushed landscape and joined him on the porch swing. Josef draped another blanket across their legs and with a nudge of his foot, set the swing in motion.

"Do you think he will come?" Romie's voice was soft and wistful. The swing rocked slowly several times before Josef answered.

"Perhaps soon." Josef stared at the trees, looking for movement, knowing he would see none even if Robert were there. The shadows were too deep and Hogan was too skilled at hiding.

Romie glanced at Josef, sadness warring with hope. "The message said he was going out tonight." Kurt had stopped by before leaving for Stalag 13. He had refused the sandwich she had prepared, explaining he was in a rush to get to the camp before Robert left. Romie had been thrilled Robert was finally strong enough to go out.

Josef nodded. "On a mission. There may not be time for more."

_For us_, hung unspoken between them.

Romie's gaze returned to the deep woods. Josef reached over and took her hand.

"It is growing cooler, Mutter. Let's go inside and light a fire."

Romie nodded reluctant agreement, and rose at Josef's gentle tug on her hand. Just before the door closed behind her, she threw one last look at the dark stand of trees.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

The night had turned cool, but not unpleasantly so, considering it was mid-October. Moss cushioned him, evergreen bows hung above him and rock walls protected him from behind and to his left. The location – long a favorite - was high and isolated, the only access the narrow trail at his right.

Sheltered in deep shadow on the outcropping of rock, Hogan sat motionless; breathing air scented with pine and wood smoke, and the faint musk of rotting leaves. There was no breeze to speak of, only the occasional eddies and currents that curled up and over the ledge. From his position, he was far enough from the edge so as not to be seen from below; yet close enough to have a mostly unobstructed view. He stared down at a land painted in silver and black, rendered by the full moon's light into glistening forms and cut-edged shadows.

Lifting his eyes from earth to heaven, Hogan blinked in surprise. The last time he had looked, the moon had not yet reached its zenith. It was well past it now, hovering closer to the western horizon. He glared at the celestial body with a mild sense of betrayal. Its descent urged him back to Stalag 13, while the pouch resting on the ground against his hip reminded him there was no reason to stay out any longer.

He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees; drinking in the moonlit landscape, loathe to replace it with drab buildings, guard towers and wire fences. Ground fog floated over clearings and above the river like gauzy, silver spun sugar, evoking memories of late summer nights at the family lake house. He let himself sink into simpler, safer times, putting off his return to camp just a little while longer.

He remembered the slow crawl of the mist off the water and onto shore when night fell. His brothers' laughter and yells as they wrestled on thick green grass dotted with yellow dandelions. His sister calling him in for supper while loon song floated over the water, crickets harmonized and the sun sank in a blazing goodnight of color. The heady scent of pipe smoke that wreathed the air above his father's head as he squinted down at newsprint smudged by younger fingers. The delicate tilt of his mother's face, ruddy from cooking, as she monitored the emptiness of everyone's plates and the fullness of their bellies. The sparkle that lit her green eyes when she laughed at punch lines or stories that only a child would find funny.

Other images surfaced, the warmth they called forth enticing him to take a longer trip down memory lane. Rather than give in to the temptation, he pulled free of the rose-colored nostalgia and refocused on the present, old habits coming to the fore. He scanned the silver and black terrain for threats, paying particular attention to areas leading to the path he had taken.

Habit and duty had long been his way of 'getting through'. Almost from the moment he had stepped through West Point's hallowed gates and gazed in reverence and awe at the grounds, his widowed mother hovering a short distance away, trying not to intrude. When he had pulled on his first uniform and heard an almost audible 'snap' in his mind, he had thought, _This is me. This is what I was born for._ Before he knew it, the military and duty had become his life.

Through the years, duty and habit had kept him sane, kept him strong, and . . . since he had apparently decided this was a good time to be brutally honest with himself - had insulated him. _Refuge_, Hogan mentally snorted, labeling it for what it was. And with that admission, he slammed the door on that train of thought. Heaven knew he had followed those tracks enough times while stuck in camp.

He leaned back slowly, drawing in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet scents of the night. His eyes fluttered closed but the muscles across his shoulders remained tense, on edge even now, even here. His eyes opened again, narrowed and dropped, taking in the black of clothing, shadows and the night.

This place had always brought him a tremendous sense of release – of relief. Up here, troubles temporarily fell away and calm – serenity, for a better word - descended. By the time he left, it was always with a feeling of being refreshed, energized from head to toe, ready to take on whatever life had for him, his perspective clear once more.

It was not happening this time. He had been up here for hours and that quietness of spirit, of being 'right' with himself had yet to return. He was starting to fear it never would again.

Another memory popped out of his unsettled mind and his lips quirked in bitter amusement. His mother used to drag out jigsaw puzzles on rainy days, when the weather was too bad to send her rowdy brood outside to 'Go! Burn it off, boys!' He and his brothers and sister would reluctantly sit down around their kitchen table, dump the pieces in the middle of it and then half-heartedly start picking at the jumble of colored cardboard. All of their puzzles had missing pieces, and it was hard to summon enthusiasm about assembling a picture that would never be complete. Piece by piece, a farm scene, city or whatever was shown on the box's front cover would become recognizable. When there were no more pieces lying on the table or hiding under the box or on the floor, they would sit back and stare at the picture with a sense of sadness. Their eyes were always drawn to those places where the missing pieces had once fit, and the table's top now showed through. Colored pieces of paper inserted into the holes could not hide them. The puzzles were still incomplete.

Hogan dropped his chin to his chest, his breath slowly escaping from between parted lips. He felt like one of those puzzles. He had missing pieces, scattered to who knows where. What was left had gaping holes, where the emptiness showed through.

Just like the holes in those childhood puzzles, he did not know how to replace the missing pieces.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch looked up from his book, glanced around the small locker room and sighed. Folding the page's corner over (and silently apologizing to his mama for the disrespect shown the book), he laid the book aside and got to his feet. All eyes turned to him, but he said nothing, just shook out his shoulders and sticking his hands in his trouser pockets, walked across the small room. The spot where he stopped effectively blocked Newkirk's line of pacing, and drew a sound that was a mix of irritation and askance.

"You going for some sort of record?" Kinch asked; lips slightly curved in a smile. Newkirk blinked at him, puzzled. "Near as I can figure," Kinch added by way of explanation, "you've gone three, maybe four miles already."

The confusion drained from Newkirk's face, and was replaced with a flash of genuine amusement. "Feels more like six."

"Ten," LeBeau huffed, arms tightly folded and back ramrod straight in his chair. Olsen, seated beside him in a chair balanced on two legs, glanced his way, then went back to slowly twiddling his thumbs.

Carter stretched his arms over his head, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks for stopping him, Kinch. My neck was getting sore from watching." He glanced from Kinch to Newkirk, a thin smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Usually it's me doing the pacing."

Kinch studied Carter for coping methods and found none. "So why aren't you? Not that I think you should be."

Carter hitched a thumb at Newkirk, who seemed similarly bemused by the exchange of mannerisms. "He beat me to it and was doing enough for the both of us."

Olsen teetered his chair forward and back several times, then shook himself, and peered down at his watch. He frowned, tapped at the watch with a fingernail. "Anybody have the time? I think this thing finally gave up the ghost."

LeBeau checked his own, then leaned forward and sideways to get a look at Olsen's. "That's the right time."

Olsen brought all four legs of the chair down to the ground, lurched to his feet, and threw his arms wide. "Everybody out of the way. My turn to pace."

Carter's head fell back against the wall, a quiet groan escaping.

Kinch swept the room's occupants with a glance containing equal parts amusement and empathy. "Would you take a look at us? We're acting like a bunch of worried parents with a kid out past curfew."

Furtive glances flew about the room. Tight expressions eased and sheepish smiles broke out. Kinch could almost feel the tension level drop. It did not disappear completely, but the stifling atmosphere of before was gone.

Olsen took his chair again, immediately leaned it back onto two legs. "Guess he's done this a few times before, huh?"

KInch smirked. "A few."

"Could probably teach us a thing or two?" Newkirk drawled, finding a wall and propping a shoulder against it.

"Perhaps." LeBeau threw a small smile at Kinch. He returned it then quickly sobered when a thought occured to him.

"Maybe all of us shouldn't be hanging around like this when he gets back."

Newkirk glanced around, confusion evident. "Why ever not?"

Carter looked around as well, seeing nothing unusual. "We're not doing anything we haven't done before, Kinch."

LeBeau shrugged. "We are just waiting here rather than up there."

Olsen's rocking stopped. "What's the problem, Kinch?" he asked quietly.

"When was the last time we all reacted like this when he went out on a simple pick up job?" Kinch waited for them to provide an example. After several moments of watching them trade glances, he said, "So he comes back, finds us waiting around, and maybe starts to wonder if we think he's lost his edge and isn't good enough to go out on his own anymore."

Newkirk snorted. "You're worrying too much, mate."

Kinch suddenly noticed Olsen's blank expression and pierced him with a hard gaze. "Olsen. Tell me you're not doubting his capabilities."

Olsen's gaze sliced back and forth between LeBeau, Carter and Newkirk, then fastened upon Kinch again. "Ah . . . Pardon me for playing devil's advocate, but . . ." he paused, huffing out a breath. "He's not the same man he was before . . . You know. Before."

Carter gaped. "Olsen --"

LeBeau's features darkened, an angry retort poised on his lips.

"You can't be bloody serious!" Newkirk ranted at Olsen.

"Serious about what?" Tivoli and Benson strode into the room, Jones, Lyons, Maddux and Broughton not far behind.

"Oh, lovely," Newkirk muttered under his breath, glaring at the group of new arrivals. The room filled up in a hurry and Kinch felt a prickle of unease. Now, instead of finding five men waiting up for him, Hogan would discover a roomful. Kinch warily eyed the tunnel, hoping no one else planned to join them, and that Hogan would take just the just a little longer to return. Longer as in the amount of time it took for Kinch to clear the room.

"What's going on?" Tivoli's gaze made a quick pass over everyone.

"Nothing," Olsen proclaimed, straightening out of his slouch. He liked the 'goon squad', as they had come to be known, but their timing in most occasions was typically bad. Like now. "Not a thing."

Benson caught Kinch's eyes. "We just thought—"

"We'd see if Hogan— OW!" Maddux rubbed the back of his head where Lyons had cuffed him. "If _the colonel_ had made it back yet." He cocked his head, sent a squint-eyed glare over his shoulder at Lyons.

"Not yet." Kinch made a vague gesture toward the doorway behind them. "We'll let you know if there's any trouble."

"Whoa," Tivoli growled. "You kicking us out? Why can't we stay here like the rest of you?"

"We were just about to leave." Carter took a step toward the door, but found his way blocked.

"That we were." Newkirk moved forward, flattened a hand on Jones' chest and pushed. Or tried to. He might as well have been pushing against a large boulder. Jones barely swayed on his feet, vague irritation creasing his face. Newkirk's lips thinned and he threw his weight into another push. "Let's go then. Turn about. Hi-ho and all."

Jones swatted him away with the bored air of an elephant swatting at a bothersome insect. Newkirk uttered a strangled sound, caught his balance, and braced to go at him again. Jones' eyes narrowed, while Maddux's sparked with anticipation of an impending fight. With the pained air of having done this many times, Broughton stepped forward to intercede, while Benson did the same.

"Don't even think about it." Kinch's soft order rang with an implicit threat. Everyone stopped in their tracks and the room went suddenly still. Tivoli's head canted toward Kinch and their eyes locked. Benson returned to Tivoli's side and nudged the Italian's shoulder with his own, encouraging his friend to do the right thing. Kinch appreciated the show of support. Barking orders was never his choice and in this case, might rekindle animosity that in the past months had all but disappeared.

Tivoli's breath whooshed out in a rush and he pivoted toward the door. One by one, everyone filed out behind him, Benson tossing off a nod to Kinch before leaving.

Kinch took his seat again, but left the book where it lay. Like a moth fluttering about a flame, his thoughts kept circling back to the last several minutes and the worrying subject of Olsen's doubts.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan worked his way down the hill, moving slower when the trail grew steeper. The light was fading with the moon's descent, and one misstep would likely result in a broken limb. Feeling a moment of guilt at staying out so late, he risked a little speed despite the danger.

He was half way down when he heard it.

Gunfire.

* * *

_TBC . . ._ _Thank you for reading!_


	25. Chapter 25

_Thank you, Marilyn! And thank you, dear readers, for your reviews! _

**

* * *

****Chapter 25**

The sound of gunfire ricocheted through the trees, the echoes bouncing, throwing all sense of its location to hell and back. Hogan rapidly swiveled his head, trying to pinpoint it anyway, trying to hear over the roaring in his ears and the sound of his heart slamming against his ribs. His hand hovered directly over the gun at his hip, fingers open and curled. Sweat slicked his face like cold mist.

Another booming salvo went off in the distance, the tight pattern of fire speaking of desperation. Hogan snapped his head back to his right, zeroing in on the sound and identifying it. Shotgun. His mind raced. Hammelburg lay in the opposite direction. Stalag 13 was straight ahead and slightly to the left. Nothing but farm ground directly to his right, scattered homesteads, and a few of the Underground's hiding places.

Small weapon fire answered. Multiple weapons. Hard to make out how many.

The shotgun went off again, two rapid shots, immediately answered by rapid fire from the handguns.

Hogan licked his lips, picturing the exchange. His stomach roiled. Who was in trouble?

His eyes narrowed and he thought hard, trying to remember if he had ever seen a shotgun at the Metzger's. As far as he knew, Josef had only the pistol Tiger had secured for him and a single old hunting rifle.

As quickly as it started, the gunfire stopped. The last echoes faded to nothing. The forest fell silent.

Hogan's hand stayed over his gun, every muscle so tense he could have been mistaken for one of the statues in Hammelburg's square.

The moon was nearly level with the forest canopy when he finally moved, cold, exhausted and worried, for camp.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch was on the way to beating himself at what felt like the fiftieth game of tic-tac-toe that night, when he heard something in the tunnel. He waited, pencil poised above the paper, and ear cocked toward the doorway. The sound grew louder and he nodded to himself. Someone was coming. He bent his head over the paper again and placed an 'x' in the right-hand upper corner of the scrawled grid. Whoever was coming, they were obviously not Hogan. Their CO had a well-known habit of being ghost-quiet, training and an Irish-born streak of mischief keeping him sharp at sneaking up on people. These footsteps betrayed a complete lack of grace and energy.

_Plodding_, Kinch thought; marking an 'o' in the grid's center column, bottom row. Like his grandfather's plow horse would do heading out of the barn for a day of working in the fields.

Hogan trudged into the room, head down, jacket hanging open and gloves tightly gripped in one hand. Surprised, Kinch dropped his pencil, never noticing it roll off the table and fall to the floor. Hogan shot a glance in his direction and continued his trek to the lockers. Kinch took a few seconds to consider his CO's silence, locked down expression and tense jaw. They all warned attempts at conversation would be a very bad idea. But then, no one had ever accused Kinch of being short on courage.

"Everything go all right?"

Hogan slid the pouch's strap from his shoulder and held it out at arm's length. Kinch's brow arched at the lack of a verbal response. After a moment's hesitation, he left his seat and moved close enough to accept the hand-off. Hogan jerked the locker's door open, threw his gloves inside and started stripping off his jacket. His head remained low, his shoulders slumped. A cauldron of acid started simmering in Kinch's belly. He had expected a night of freedom to help Hogan, not make him look worse. Throwing all caution to the wind, Kinch asked an even blunter question.

"Are you all right?"

Hogan's hands stilled in the act of unbuckling his gun belt and his eyes fixed upon the floor. Kinch held his breath, not wanting even that tiny sound to possibly mask a response. He need not have concerned himself, since none came. He waited until Hogan had removed the belt, carefully unloaded the gun, and returned both to the locker before he spoke again.

"Colonel--" Weight bumped Kinch's leg. He looked down in surprise at the pouch still in his hand. The precious spare parts for the radio could be mere lumps of coal for all he cared at the moment. Depositing the pouch on the table, he decided it was time to push hard against boundaries he had long respected.

"Talk to me, Colonel. What happened? Where have you been all this time?"

Hogan sat heavily on the bench and for a few seconds, said nothing. Then he tossed a look over his shoulder at Kinch, as though debating whether or not to say anything. Shoulders heaving on a sigh, he swiveled on the bench, straddling it. He stayed hunched over; as if he had suffered a blow he had yet to recover from.

"I froze, Kinch." Quietly, gaze hovering somewhere off to Kinch's left, he explained about picking up the spare parts and making the decision to stay out rather than return immediately to camp. A little life returned to his tone when he apologized for staying out too long. Then his voice grew distant, his expression immobile, and he described his reaction to hearing the gunfire.

Kinch folded his arms and mulled that over, then made a small motion with his shoulders - a sort of half-shrug - and said, "I'd be surprised if you reacted any other way, this being your first time out after what you went through."

Hogan's eyes went hard as glacial ice and his voice roughened to a growl. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. I froze. Like some wet-behind-the-ears recruit who'd never been in combat. I stood there like an idiot and did absolutely nothing, while somebody, maybe Tiger, DuBois or possibly even my men, fought for their lives. Don't you get it? I couldn't even bring myself to draw my weapon! I just _stood there_ and waited for it to be over!" Breathing hard, eyes almost wild, he added, "After tonight, I don't trust myself to cover anyone's back!"

Kinch locked eyes with him. "Well, I do. In any situation."

Hogan stared at Kinch as if he had just sprouted another head, horns and a set of wings besides. "I refuse to risk someone's life on the off-chance that I _might_ be okay next time."

Kinch pressed his lips tightly together, thinking fast. "Colonel, why do you think you froze?"

A flash of self-loathing twisted Hogan's mouth. "I've lost my nerve!"

"No," Kinch flung back, vehement. "You froze because you still haven't come to grips with what happened with Orion and Marta. You haven't forgiven yourself for making a mistake and killing Marta, and until you do, then maybe you're right after all. Maybe it _is _best you not go out on any missions."

Hogan stood and walked out of the room. Kinch let him go, dropped his chin to his chest and blew out a sigh. Running a four-minute mile had never left him so exhausted.

Grabbing the pouch from the table, he set off for the radio room to stow the spare parts before roll call.

Neither he nor Hogan were aware that their conversation had been overheard.

* * *

_TBC. Thank you for reading!_


	26. Chapter 26

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter 26**

* * *

Deep into the tunnels and away from any junction where someone might happen upon him, Hogan stopped, braced his hands against the tunnel wall and hung his head. His breath hissed through his clenched teeth, but not from the speed at which he had left the room. 

He was shaking, felt ready to fly apart, and if it happened, witnesses – even Kinch – were the last thing he wanted.

His right hand flexed into a tight fist beside his head; slowly pounded the wall. Dirt crumbled beneath the assault, forming a small waterfall of soil that mounded beside his foot.

His shoulders heaved on a half-sob. His head lolled back and forth between his hunched shoulders, helplessness washing through him in sickening waves. The ground seemed to tilt beneath his feet; his fingers splayed on the cool earth wall, then dug deep, seeking purchase, holding on.

_. . . it will cripple you, destroy you . . ._

_. . . you still haven't come to grips with what happened with Orion and Marta. You haven't forgiven yourself for making a mistake and killing Marta . . ._

_. . . your life will be nothing but darkness, anger and pain . . ._

Hogan crumpled forward with a muted groan, rested his forehead against the wall. They were right. He could not continue this way. Either he dealt with what he had done . . .

_. . . accept, Robert . . ._

_. . . forgive yourself, Colonel . . . _

. . . or he should request a change of command for his men's sake. They needed a CO they could count on, not someone who was figuratively standing on the edge of a cliff trying to maintain his balance.

Slow, deep breaths gradually calmed his racing heart and brought the shaking under control. Forcing his head up, he pushed off the wall and retraced his steps at a run. Color had not yet brushed the sky when he had ducked inside the tunnels. But it would soon. First thing he would do was finish changing and get topside before Schultz called them out for roll call.

After that . . .

He had no idea.

**HH ****HH**** HH HH HH HH HH**

"Kinch--"

"He's coming, LeBeau."

"But--"

"He made it back without any trouble." Kinch waved Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk out the door for roll call and was about to follow when Schultz appeared in the doorway. The guard looked from the empty beds and table to Hogan's door, then turned to Kinch, a worried frown puckering his brow.

"Where is Colonel Hogan?"

Kinch shrugged, acting nonchalant. "In his quarters changing, Schultz. He'll be out in a second or two." He turned sideways to better fit through the crowded doorway, grunted when he bumped up hard against Schultz's shoulder and stomach. Schultz obligingly leaned back and sideways, increasing the amount of space by perhaps a foot. It was enough. Kinch sucked in a deep breath, stood on tiptoes and slid the rest of the way out.

Schultz stepped inside the barracks and after considering Hogan's closed door for several seconds, shrugged and went back outside to start his count. Over the last month, he had noticed that Hogan sometimes waited until the very last minute to join the other men at roll call. If Hogan had not appeared by the time he had finished counting the other men, he would go back and hurry him along. He refused to consider the possibility that the senior P.O.W. was not in his quarters, since that would mean there had been an escape. And that would mean that he, Schultz, was in very deep trouble of the Russian Front variety.

As soon as Schultz had passed by, Olsen leaned past Braveheart and grabbed Kinch by the arm. "You weren't just putting us on about him being back, right?"

Kinch responded with a glare fit to scorch Olsen's hair to the roots. Olsen swallowed, shrugged, and released Kinch's arm. Kinch continued his walk to the end of the second rank and settled into place. He was present, but his thoughts were still on his CO, who was still conspicuously absent. He wondered, not for the first time, if he had done the right thing in leaving Hogan alone when he was so obviously at the end of his rope.

There were almost audible sighs of relief when the barracks door opened and Hogan stepped out, zipping his jacket and stepping lively. The men sent up murmured greetings, while Schultz stuttered in his count due to a wide grin. Hogan nodded to everyone and hurried to his place at the end of the first rank. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he focused his gaze dead ahead and tuned the whispers and chatters sounding up and down the ranks into nothing more than background noise.

"He doesn't look any better."

Newkirk slanted a slit-eyed look at Carter and softly growled out a warning to keep it down. He shared Carter's opinion on Hogan's appearance, but refused to add to the sotto voce chatter going on around him.

Carter leaned forward out of rank and tried sneaking another peek down the line at Hogan's profile.

Schultz paused his count and stopped, eyed Carter curiously, then threw a glance at Newkirk. "What is wrong with him?" he asked, waggling a thumb at Carter. Newkirk shrugged.

"He seems all right to me."

Schultz's brow furrowed and just as quickly smoothed out again. The day was too beautiful to be in a bad mood. Giving Newkirk a smile and back-handed slap to the chest, he moved along to finish his count before Kommandant Klink appeared.

Standing directly behind Hogan in the second line of prisoners, Kinch shifted subtly in place. He could see little of Hogan's face, had gotten merely a glimpse of a blank expression and dead-tired eyes when his CO had passed by. Kinch took another half-step to his right. Hogan's head was tilted toward the sky and his eyes were barely open. The exhaustion on his face was so pronounced that Kinch sent up a fervent prayer for a peaceful day.

Schultz reached Hogan and finished off his count with a great air of satisfaction. All were present and accounted for, which meant that his good mood would continue for a least a little while longer. Giving Hogan a smile and nod of greeting, Schultz executed a crisp about-face and marched forward to meet Kommandant Klink.

"All present, Herr Kommandant," Schultz reported, snapping off a salute and accompanying it with a grin to match his good mood.

Klink acknowledged the report with a nod. His fingers rolled and fidgeted with the riding crop tucked under his arm, while his eyes traveled slowly over the prisoners, looking for any signs of suspicious activity or disrespect. When his gaze fell upon Hogan, Klink went still, a tingle of alarm widening his eyes. Suddenly aware of the prisoners regarding him closely as well, he barked out their dismissal. They immediately started to disperse, Hogan along with them.

"Not you, Hogan," Klink snapped, inserting a note of imperious demand into his tone. Hogan stopped and slowly turned toward him, one dark eyebrow quirked.

"What is it, Kommandant? I have a really full schedule today. Clothes to wash, letters to write, escape plans to make."

A smattering of chuckles went up from the prisoners and Klink rocked back on his heels, sneering at what passed for Hogan's brand of humor.

"Very funny, Hogan." He turned toward his headquarters, jerked his head toward it. "With me. Now. The rest can wait."

"Sorry fellas," Hogan sighed to his men, flashing a small smile their way. "Save a shovel for me."

Klink narrowed his eyes into a glare that had absolutely no affect upon Hogan. Satisfied that the American would follow rather than risk a stint in the cooler, Klink spun and led the way to his headquarters.

Once inside his office, Klink motioned toward a chair. Hogan sauntered to it and sat, tossing his crush cap onto the spike of the Pickelhaub occupying the corner of Klink's desk. Klink slammed the door shut and marched to the desk, plucked the cap off the helmet and threw at Hogan. The American caught it against his chest with both hands, then let it drop onto his lap. Klink took his own chair, secretly pleased at Hogan's small show of spirit in what Klink had come to see as a game between them. It had been some time since the American had last played it.

"What is it you wanted to see me about, Kommandant?" Hogan reached around the box of cigars that sat front and center on Klink's desk and used one finger to tip the lid up. Klink jerked forward and slammed the lid back down, just catching the tip of Hogan's finger. Hogan jerked back, shook the sting out.

Klink leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingertips. "Pick fifteen of your men for a road crew."

Hogan's eyebrows rose along with his voice. "They just had road duty three days ago!"

Klink dipped his head sideways in a regal nod. "They did." He jerked forward at the waist, slapped his hands down on the chair's arms. "And did a horrible job! This time, they will do it right and you will go along to make certain they do."

Hogan's lips pressed together. Klink jabbed a finger at him.

"No arguments, Hogan, or I'll add two weeks' worth of road duty, along with an extra day of garbage detail every week."

Anger sparked in Hogan's eyes and the muscles in his jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Klink sat back with a nod, then whipped his head toward the phone when it rang. He answered it and for a few minutes kept most of his focus upon the conversation with Kommandant Decker of Stalag 9. The remainder stayed upon Hogan, waiting with ill-grace, eyes wandering about the office and fingers smoothing along the seams of his crush cap. The American looked terrible still, even after a month of light duty. He had not even taken the time to shave this morning.

Klink frowned, tapped his fingernail upon his desk blotter, half-listening to Kommandant Decker's usual list of complaints. Why Decker thought he cared to listen to his problems when he had his own . . .

Suddenly tired of it, Klink made up an excuse to end the one-sided conversation and dropped the receiver into its cradle. Hogan's head swung back in his direction, the brown eyes refocusing upon him with noticeable effort. Klink drummed his fingertips on the blotter.

"Have you forgotten how to shave, Hogan?"

Hogan's smile was pleasant enough, but his voice carried a sharp edge. "No, sir."

Klink arched an eyebrow and for the length of a minute, they merely stared at each other. Klink folded his arms on the desk, then looked down and gathering his thoughts, slid a finger back and forth on the blotter in front of him. Hogan's gaze flicked down to watch, then rose again to Klink's face.

"Hogan . . ." Klink's eyes snapped up and he stared across the desk, once again taking in the pale features, dark-rimmed eyes and tousled hair. He had seen Hogan tired before, even frightened. But the soul-deep weariness he kept glimpsing in the dark eyes was unsettling. His fingers twitched and he barely restrained himself from reaching across the desk and asking what was wrong. If they were friends, he would have carried through with the compulsion. But they were not and never would be.

Hogan sighed, rubbed a hand along his stubbled jaw. "Lose your train of thought, there, Kommandant?"

Klink pursed his lips, opened his mouth, then sank back into his chair and waved a hand toward the door.

"Dismissed, Hogan. The work detail leaves in two hours. You and your men better be ready."

"Guess I'll have to cancel that manicure," Hogan sighed, getting to his feet.

"But not the shave," Klink snapped. "You are Stalag 13's senior P.O.W. and as such, I expect you to set a good example to the rest of the men. The next time you show your face outside your barracks, it had better be clean-shaven."

Stone-faced, Hogan donned his crush cap, saluted and left. The moment the door had closed behind him, Klink visibly deflated, stood and went to the window. Pulling back the curtain, he watched Hogan march across the compound and into Barracks Two, then let the curtain fall again and returned to his seat, oddly unsettled. He had thought Hogan would jump at the chance of spending time outside the fences.

**HH ****HH**** HH HH HH HH HH**

"Work detail!" Olsen threw his cap down on Carter's bunk. "Another stinking detail? What gives? The Krauts have some kind of road beautiful contest going on we don't know about?"

"Next thing you know they'll have us planting geraniums like ol' Crittendon," Newkirk grumbled from the table.

"Might not be such a bad thing," Carter said, pushing the last bites of his breakfast around on his plate.

Parker shook his head. "Make work, you ask me."

"At least it'll get us back outside the fences again." Kinch pushed his plate away, shrugged an apology to LeBeau for leaving half of his meal untouched.

"There is that," Olsen admitted, dropping onto Carter's bed and kicking his heels onto the bench beside Newkirk. The Englishman swatted them back down, shot a warning look at him.

Hogan turned to Kinch. "Any word on what the shooting might have been about?"

"Shooting?" Several of the men chorused, wearing almost identical expressions of surprise.

"No." Kinch yawned, then chuckled when yawns broke out around the table. "Baker said it was quiet most of the night except for some routine radio checks."

Newkirk tossed a recriminating look Kinch's way. "You run into trouble last night, Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan briefly explained hearing the shots and nothing more.

Paxton braced a foot on the end of the bench next to Kinch and rested his crossed arms on his knee.

"Could have been anything."

Olsen nodded. "Not likely to know unless it turns out to be something big."

"Or someone," Braveheart added from his bunk, expression studiously blank.

A shadow passed across Hogan's face, unnoticed by most. Kinch sighed under his breath and glanced across the table at Newkirk. The Englishman gave a minute shake of his head. Neither man wanted to contemplate the idea that it might be someone they knew.

LeBeau frowned down at Hogan's plate, at the food that had barely been touched. Hogan shook his head to warn off any comments and pushed back from the table. "If you'll pardon me, I've got a date with my razor and my bunk." He entered his quarters and closed the door, shutting out the many eyes watching in concern.

"It's going to take a lot more than a nap to fix what's ailing him," O'Malley murmured to himself.

**HH ****HH**** HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan was just wiping the last of the shaving cream from his face when there was a knock at his door. Calling out permission to enter, he threw the towel into the locker. Kinch came in, carrying his notepad. Hogan closed the locker and turned, his eyes immediately falling to the notebook in Kinch's hand. Kinch ripped a page out and passed it over.

"New assignment, sir. London wants us to check out a transmitter tower being set up near Hammelburg."

His eyes still on the message, Hogan pivoted and went to his desk. "Grab the map."

Kinch pulled the false top from one of the posts supporting Hogan's bunk and fished out a large, rolled map. Carrying it to the desk, he spread it out and placed weights at each corner to hold it flat. Hogan looked from the message to the map, checking London's coordinates. Rather than being specific, they gave only a general area. He studied the terrain and the distance from Stalag 13 before his thoughts drifted to the matter he had been considering while he shaved. Blowing out a deep breath, he lifted his head and locked eyes with Kinch.

"Get a team together. You'll go out tonight."

Kinch blinked. "Me?"

Hogan's eyebrows rose. "Problem?"

That was exactly what Kinch wondered. Knowing he was walking a thin line, he nevertheless voiced his concern at the timing. "You tell me, sir. Is the reason I'm leading the team instead of you have anything to do with what happened last night?"

Hogan's eyes grew shadowed. "Yes."

Kinch hoped for more and his raised eyebrow said as much. Hogan sighed and looked down at the map, flattening a palm on it.

"There's somewhere else I have to be tonight."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Klink leaned back in his chair and threw an arm over his eyes. Pain throbbed behind them and in his temples from hours of wrestling accounts and filing reports. He started rub his eye only to have his fingers ram his monocle into his cheek. Wincing, he carefully plucked the glass piece from his face and laid it on the desk blotter. Not for the first time, he thought wistfully of the perfect vision his brother had been blessed with.

"Kommandant?"

Klink lifted his head. Fraulein Hilda stood in the doorway, her hands tucked demurely at her back. Something about her expression pricked his suspicious nature. He sat up, expecting nothing but bad news.

"What is it, Fraulein Hilda?"

Ducking her head and lowering her gaze, she slid her hands from behind her back, revealing another sheaf of papers loaded with fine print. Klink fell back in his chair with a groan. Hilda left the doorway and after searching for a bare place on his desk and finding none, settled for laying the papers upon his lap.

"I am sorry, sir," she said, sympathy softening her voice. "I found them under one of my notebooks."

Eyes still closed against the sight of yet more work, Klink responded with only a dismissive gesture in her direction. He heard her walk away and leave the office, and thought she was particularly careful to shut the door as quietly as possible.

Refusing to even look at the papers, Klink grabbed them from his lap and threw them onto his desk. Muttering under his breath about bureaucrats and their endless streams of forms and orders, he pushed to his feet and went to the window.

In contrast to his gloomy mood, the day was so bright with sunshine that he had to squint to see clearly. Prisoners were scattered throughout his field of view, doing nothing in particular that he could see. His gaze cut to Barracks Two when the door opened and Sergeant Kinchloe walked out. The American paused and looked back and forth until he spotted a small group of men standing near Barracks 6. He headed their way, his long stride quickly eating up the distance.

Klink clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet, idly watched Kinchloe's progress. The group of prisoners turned at his approach, providing Klink with a good look at most of them. He easily identified Newkirk, Carter and Olsen, but the last man stood at an angle that did not allow a view of his face. They closed ranks with Kinch upon his arrival, forming a tight knot.

Thoughts of escape plans and tunnel digging instantly springing to mind, Klink tensed and threw a quick glance around the compound. Hogan was nowhere to be seen and he relaxed again with a sniff, believing such plans would not be made in the senior P.O.W.'s absence. The prisoners were likely discussing nothing more than the upcoming basket weaving contest, or maybe the 'Barracks Beautiful' contest.

Klink turned from the window with a deep sigh, bracing himself once more to face the mountains of paperwork. As he sank into his chair, he could not help tossing a look of longing toward the brightly lit window.

The prisoners were truly fortunate to not be saddled with deadlines and important duties.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Not going?" Newkirk squawked, shooting Kinch a look of disbelief. "He's _not going_?"

"That's what I said," Kinch replied with cool aplomb before his tone turned brisk. "We go out, scout the location and report back to London."

Newkirk jerked forward at the waist, hands spreading wide in a warning gesture. His stern glare flew from man to man. "Don't _anyone_ say 'piece of cake!'"

Benson's smirk melted away as he directed his attention to Kinch. "Who's 'we'?"

"Besides myself, you, Olsen, Braveheart, Newkirk, Carter, Broughton, and Paxton. It's a large area to cover, especially in the time we have to do it in."

Olsen tipped his cap back and scratched at his forehead. "I don't get it, Kinch. He's been like a crazed cat the last month, wanting nothing more than to get out and prowl. Now after only one night of freedom, he's happy to stay here?"

"He's not staying here."

Carter's frown lifted. "Where's he going?"

Kinch patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about that, Carter. Our focus needs to be on our assignment."

Olsen pinned Kinch with a squint-eyed stare. "You don't know where he's going."

"No," Kinch said succinctly, wanting off the subject. "And if he wanted me – or you – to know, he would have said so. Let's get back to our mission, all right?"

"Okay. Go ahead," Carter encouraged, his affable nature making a reappearance. "We're all ears."

"Some of us more than others," Newkirk muttered, flicking a fond look in Carter's direction.

Happy to have steered clear of the subject of Hogan's night, Kinch went on to explain the mission in more detail.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan closed the shutters to the window in his quarters, blocking out the bright sunlight. There would be time to enjoy the day later, while he was with the work crew. Head down and hands in his pockets, he paced to the center of his quarters and stopped, fleeting images of the night before passing through his mind. He was grateful he had been alone and not on a mission with his men when he had panicked. The thought of freezing in the midst of a true crisis, when his men's lives were at stake and they were counting on him to act at a moment's notice filled him horror.

A shudder raced through him, gooseflesh raising the hair on the back of his neck. Rubbing it away, he stared, unseeing at the floor.

Everything hinged on tonight. If at the end of the night he had not reached some sort of peace with himself, then he would be left with only one course of action.

Transfer out of Stalag 13.

* * *

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_


	27. Chapter 27

_Thank you so much to those who have reviewed! _

_As always, I can't thank my talented beta-reader, Marilyn Penner, enough for her help. She gives every chapter a thorough examination and makes it so much better with her suggestions and insight. Any grammatical mistakes or other errors are due solely to my messing with the chapter after she's seen it. _

* * *

**Chapter 27**

Hogan dragged his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head, growled in disgust when the material clung to his face like a wet sheet. Freeing himself from its unwelcome embrace, he wadded the sour-smelling garment into a ball and flung it into the basket at the foot of his bunk. Hours of work had left a layer of sweat and grime behind. Frowning at the sticky, itchy feeling – not to mention the smell – he shuffled to his locker for a towel to wipe off the worst of it. He paused in his tracks when a huge yawn burst forth, bringing tears to his eyes and popping his jaw. When it finally ended, he stood a moment longer, listening. On the other side of his door, the other members of the work crew were fielding good-natured ribbing about their dirty state.

A smile teased the corners of his mouth. He had to admit, Klink had done him a favor by ordering him to accompany the crew. At first, he had done no more than trade desultory conversation with Schultz and Langenscheidt alongside the road, while his men cut back brush and filled potholes. It was not long, however, before he had tossed Schultz his cap and jacket and taken up a shovel. For awhile, nothing but the work and his men's chatter and laughter had occupied his thoughts. All things considered, it was better than sitting around brooding.

It had also provided an opportunity to reassure his men that he was fully recovered. Though judging by the looks they had kept throwing his way, they had not been as reassured as he would have liked.

He did not need a mirror to confirm how bad he looked. Lack of sleep, along with stress, guilt, and a dose of depression tended to have that affect. Shaving was the only way he could improve his outward appearance, other than by trying to get some sleep.

_And a shower_, he thought, wrinking his nose. He lobbed the soiled towel into the basket and double-checked his watch. There was just enough time before supper for a shower and to attempt the nap he had missed earlier. Weighing the two, he decided sleep was more important at the moment. He was in his quarters – alone – and he could put up with the smell for the time it took to fall asleep. If there wasn't enough time after the nap . . . his men would understand. After all, they were men and they lived in a crowded barracks in a German P.O.W. camp. They had put up with worse and for much longer.

He eyed his bunk, uneasily wondered if he could get through the nap without another nightmare.

Just thinking about sleep conjured another yawn. Throwing his arms overhead and tilting his face toward the ceiling, he stretched and twisted in place, restless despite the fatigue. The crucifix, dog tags and talisman slid across his bare chest, jostled by the movement. He frowned at the tangled mélange of wood and metal, surprised that he had forgotten all about Braveheart's gift.

_Funny_, he thought, working to separate them, _how quickly I got used to its weight_.

He let the dog tags fall from his grasp, leaving the eagle and crucifix resting side by side upon his palm. The tips of the carving's talons just touched the silver cross, as if about to grasp it.

Hogan continued to study them while he slowly walked to his bunk. When his knees bumped the mattress, he turned, edged backward and sat. Lifting the carving from his palm, he rubbed one backswept wing with his thumb. The wood was smooth except for the eyes and a few cuts in the wings, body and tail that gave the impression of feathers. Rather than carve the bird soaring in flight or at rest, Braveheart had chosen to show its more menacing side. It was an impressive image, with its beak parted as if to rend, eyes fixed ahead and talons splayed and thrust forward as if fending off an enemy or sighting prey.

Protector.

Predator.

Forcing back sadness, Hogan reminded himself that an eagle symbolized other things, such as freedom and a fierce, independent spirit. A scripture also came to mind, but he doubted Braveheart had considered it while deciding upon an image for the talisman. _(1)_

Sighing, he returned the carving to his palm, noting with interest that it settled into the exact position as before. Talons to cross. A image came to him of an eagle swooping out of the sky, its eyes fixed upon the solid branch it had chosen to land upon. The vision was so clear and strong, he could almost feel the wind on his face.

Hogan blinked and both the image and sensation vanished. He focused on the talisman and crucifix again, his mouth curling into a faint smile.

_Maybe biblical references had been on Braveheart's mind after all._

Yawning, Hogan decided the only thing he cared about at the moment was sleep. Dropping both talisman and crucifix, he lifted his legs onto the mattress, lay back and closed his eyes. He fell asleep to the muted sound of his men's voices, the eagle and crucifix nestled together over his heart, rising and falling with each breath.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch glided sideways on the balls of his feet and feinted with his left, maneuvering his opponent like a chess piece. Countering the move, the other man tracked him with a hard gaze, gloved hands up and protecting his face. A steady stream of comments flew over their heads, layer upon layer of voices, calling out advice, providing encouragement for both. Neither paid the slightest attention to any of it. In here, it was just the two of them.

Breathing easy, floating on adrenaline, Kinch rolled his shoulders and tapped his gloves together, bouncing in place for the sheer pleasure of it. His opponent's eyes narrowed and the full lips twitched with a fleeting smile. Kinch threw a jab meant only to direct, then shot out a gloved fist meant to do much more. Jerking his head out of range, his opponent answered with a pistoned jab that never came close to its mark. Whistles and cheers went up from Kinch's corner.

Bobbing and pivoting, Kinch waited patiently for an opening, that sweet glimpse of opportunity. Another feint with the right, a double-jab with the left and there it was. His right whipped out, the powerhouse punch connecting solidly with his opponent's chin. The other man's head snapped to the side and the hard stare disintegrated into dazed, rapid blinking. Yells and hoots went up from the spectators, the noise bouncing off the rec hall's rafters.

Off-balance and woozy, Kinch's opponent threw a roundhouse left that had no chance of landing. Kinch danced to the side, expecting him to shake off the blow and easily counter the move. Instead, his opponent made a wobble-legged, flat-footed turn, still dazed. Frowning, Kinch stepped back and spread his arms wide.

"That's enough."

Tivoli gave his head a hard shake to clear the cobwebs. Swelling and a livid bruise distorted one cheekbone and a sluggishly bleeding cut bisected an eyebrow. He swiped at the blood with the back of his glove and glared at Kinch. "Not yet, it's not." He moved forward, only slightly steadier on his feet. Maddux called encouragement from his corner, while Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau prodded Kinch on with yells of their own.

Kinch held his ground and pointed a gloved hand at the Italian. "Stand down, Tivoli ."

Tivoli stopped short, frustration and anger curling his lips into a silent snarl. Maddux pulled himself onto the ring's apron and leaned over the top rope, clearly thinking of going further. Knowing Maddux's temper and that his mouth frequently ran away with itself, Benson caught Jones' attention and flashed a signal, hoping to head off trouble. Jones reached up from the floor and grabbed Maddux by the belt, staying his progress. Stopped but not contained, Maddux called out.

"Whassamatta, Kinch? Afraid he was getting ready to take you?"

Newkirk jumped onto the apron near Kinch's corner. "That'd be the day, you little rug mop!"

Jones choked, guffawed and forgot all about holding onto Maddux. Rolling his eyes, Benson left his position near the wall and waded through the crowd to take his place.

Red-faced, Maddux lowered his head like a bull sighting a target and glared daggers at Newkirk from across the ring. "What'd you call me?"

Kinch and Tivoli, their hands hanging at their sides, traded exasperated looks.

"Rug mop, I think," Carter supplied helpfully, gazing at Newkirk in surprise. "That's a new one."

Newkirk shrugged with an air of false humility. "Just came to me."

LeBeau frowned. "What does it mean?"

Maddux snapped his gaping jaw closed and grabbed the rope with both hands. "Why you," he sputtered, hoisting himself higher. "You . . ."

"Cock-eyed Cockney?" Broughton stage whispered from the floor, aiming a wink through the ropes at Newkirk. Sputtered laughter erupted from Jones as he collapsed onto a nearby chair. Benson threw a long-suffering look heavenward.

"Stop egging him on, will you?" Benson saw the battle-light in Maddux's eyes and shoved the last few men aside. He covered the remaining distance at a jog, hooked a hand in the back of Maddux's belt and held on tight.

Seeing Benson had Maddux literally in hand, Kinch turned to LeBeau for help in taking off his gloves. Left with only a view of his back, Tivoli muttered something in Italian, marched to his corner and thrust his gloved hands out. Startled and thinking he was about to get smacked, Maddux shrank backward with a squawk of surprise. Tivoli stared at him with hooded eyes, waited for the light to go on.

"The gloves," Broughton told Maddux, sotto voce, expression studiously blank.

"I knew that, ya big goof!" Ignoring Tivoli's baleful stare, Maddux quickly went to work on the gloves' laces, fumbling in his haste. Satisfied trouble had been averted, Benson released Maddux's belt.

"Thanks for the help, Jonesie," Benson mock-growled with a shove to Jones' shoulder.

Jones threw a weak salute and still chuckling, gasped, "Welcome. Any time. Count on me." Fresh laughter bubbled from him when he suddenly found his cap yanked over his eyes.

Mopping sweat from his face, Kinch glanced over his shoulder at Tivoli . They were usually evenly matched. But from the moment they had stepped into the ring today, it had been obvious that only one of them had been concentrating on the fight. Tivoli's face bore evidence of Kinch's punches, while Kinch had come away without a mark.

Once they were both gloveless, Kinch grabbed a towel from Carter and pitched it across the ring. Tivoli snatched it from the air, slung it about his neck, then slipped through the ropes, jumped to the floor and headed straight for the door without a backward look. His snarled warning stopped Maddux, Broughton and Jones from following. Benson started after him, but Kinch caught him by the arm and shook his head. After a few words with Newkirk, Carter and Lebeau, Kinch went after Tivoli. He caught up to him near the camp's well and was not surprised when the Italian whirled to face him.

"Why'd you call it?"

"Your head wasn't in the ring." Kinch wondered again why Tivoli had showed up at Barracks Two and suggested the session in the first place. "I'm not sure it was even in the building." Ignoring Tivoli 's snort, he walked over to the well and propped a hip on one of its walls. Tivoli turned his head away, muttered something Kinch did not hear.

"What was that?"

"I said," Tivoli snapped, head whipping toward him. "That I wasn't counting on an audience."

Kinch quirked an eyebrow. The comment surprised him almost as much as Tivoli 's unusual lack of skill in the ring. An audience was practically guaranteed whenever anyone caught wind they were sparring. The crowd had been smaller this time, but only because their fight had not been at their usual day and time.

"An audience has never bothered you before."

Tivoli dabbed at the cut eyebrow with a corner of his towel. "It did today."

Kinch figured Tivoli would eventually work up to an explanation. Content to wait for it, he folded his arms and leaned back, enjoying the sunshine and fresh air after the rec hall's mustiness. Tivoli glanced his way, huffed, shook his head and slowly walked over to take a seat beside him. The wood wall creaked under their combined weight, but held firm. Kinch raised his eyes to the sky, watched a low hanging cloud shift and change shape until it vaguely resembled a barn. He cocked his head and squinted up at it. More like a hangar.

Tivoli chewed on a thumbnail and fidgeted with the towel around his neck. Kinch gave him a sideways glance then went back to cloud watching. Spitting a piece of nail, Tivoli cleared his throat and stared with fixed intensity across the compound. His voice was casual.

"So when do you figure we'll get a new CO?"

Kinch's head whipped toward him. "What?"

Tivoli stared back, stone-faced. "Come on, Sarge. The colonel's going to leave."

Kinch gave him a narrow-eyed look. "And why's that?"

"Kind of obvious considering last night," Tivoli shot back, still returning Kinch's stare.

In a flash, Kinch put two and two together and did not like the answer. His voice went cold and hard. "Spill it, Tivoli."

Tivoli sighed, passed a hand over his face. "I was in the tunnels this morning." He shrugged, stared down at a smear of blood on his fingers. "I overheard what he said."

"I ordered everyone to go back to their barracks and stay there," Kinch growled, disappointed and angry. "You not only ignored that order, you eavesdropped."

"Kind of hard not to, the way you both raised your voices," Tivoli snapped, looking up.

Questions flew through his mind, like what Tivoli had been doing down there at that time. But they all paled in comparison to one.

"Have you talked about this with anyone?"

"No!" Tivoli shot to his feet and paced back and forth, agitated. The towel slipped from his neck and fluttered to the ground, unnoticed by either man. "He'll leave, Sarge, mark my words. How could he stay? He can't _not_ go out on missions and he sure can't avoid using his gun and headquarters will probably send us either a gung-ho idiot or a spineless one to replace him and he'll end up getting us all killed and—"

"Keep your voice down!" Kinch glanced around, took a deep breath and stayed Tivoli with a piercing glare. "He's not leaving."

Tivoli balled his hands on his hips. "He tell you that?"

Making no effort to hide his anger, Kinch merely stared at him. Tivoli threw his hands into the air.

"Got it. None of my business." A shrewd gleam appeared in his eyes. "But _do you_ think he's thought about leaving?"

The question had merit. Kinch did not want to think Hogan would consider leaving, but at this point, he could not honestly say their CO had not entertained the idea. Regardless, the subject was not up for discussion, especially outside where they might be overheard.

"We're not discussing this."

"Sarge –"

Kinch stood, shoulders drawing back straight. Tivoli's expression went blank and he unconsciously mirrored the stance.

"Keep your concerns and speculation to yourself."

A flicker of hurt passed over Tivoli's swarthy face. "You know I will, Sarge."

Kinch nodded. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and gripped Tivoli by the nape. "He'll get through this, Tivoli."

Tivoli searched his eyes, jerked a short nod and walked away. Kinch sighed. Noticing the towel, he bent down and picked it up, then started back to Barracks Two at a slow walk. He could only pray that whatever Hogan had planned for tonight would settle everything.

For everyone.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Dismissed!" Klink shouted, releasing the prisoners from evening roll call.

Hogan turned for the barracks only to hear his name called in a repeat of that morning. Sighing, he took comfort in knowing that he was only hours away from darkness and another night of freedom. Changing direction with barely a break in stride, he sauntered up to Klink.

"Yes, sir?" Hogan smoothed a palm over his cheek, feigning concern. "My five o'clock shadow too dark?"

Klink tucked his chin, huffed in exasperation. "If I thought it was, you would be on your way to the cooler this very minute, Hogan." His frown smoothed out, his demeanor turning diffident. "I was wondering if you would care to join me in my quarters for chess this evening."

The offer took Hogan completely by surprise. So much so, in fact, that he was momentarily left speechless.

"Thanks, but I'm not feeling too well." He shrugged. "Guess I overdid it today."

Klink's gaze turned piercing. "Yes. Schultz said that you worked alongside your men. While admirable, Hogan, it wasn't necessary. I specified you supervise and nothing more."

"It was the right thing to do," Hogan countered.

"Not if it has left you unwell," Klink snapped. Taken aback, Hogan studied him.

"Why do you care how I feel?"

Klink blustered a moment, then explained with studied nonchalance, "It isn't because I actually **care** about how you feel, Hogan. Illnesses and injuries reflect poorly on my quarterly reports."

Hogan nodded slowly. "Ah. My mistake."

"Yes," Klink sniffed. The silence that fell between them stretched. Deciding he had better things to do than to stand around and watch Klink breathe, Hogan tossed off a salute.

"Good night, Kommandant. See you tomorrow."

"I'd better!" Klink yelled to Hogan's retreating back.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan looked from man to man. "Locate the tower - if there is one - and then get back here. Don't take chances and don't engage the enemy unless you're left with no choice."

Kinch finished tying his boots and stood, giving his team a confident smile. Like them, he was armed and completely clothed in black. "Everybody remember who they're paired with?" Receiving nods and murmurs of affirmation, he turned to Hogan. "Anything else, sir?"

A smirk tempered Hogan's stern expression. "Glad you asked." His gaze swept over the group and the smirk vanished. "Keep your mind on your assignment. That's your only concern. Not where I'm going or what I'm doing." His eyebrow arched, his tone took on a hard edge of command. "Got it?"

A chorus of 'got its' went up, though some were reluctantly delivered. Hogan's expression softened.

"This is something I have to do alone, fellas."

"Understood, sir," Carter said quietly.

The other men echoed him, though their faces hid none of their concern. Kinch and Hogan shared a quick glance, then Kinch nodded and turning his attention back to the other men, gestured toward the doorway.

"Let's get on with it."

Hogan thrust out a hand and the group stayed their move toward the door. "Be careful," he told them, dropping his hand to his side.

The team filed out of the room with Kinch in the lead, leaving Hogan alone with LeBeau and O'Malley. He clapped a hand to LeBeau's shoulder, looked from one man to the other. "Keep the home fires burning."

LeBeau smiled. "_Bon chance, colonel_."

"Aye," O'Malley said, nodding. "We'll be waiting for you, sir."

A smile came and went on Hogan's face. "Relax, you two. I'll be back before you know it." Aware time was getting away from him, he headed for the emergency exit at a fast walk, with only his thoughts for company.

Which, for tonight, was just the way he wanted it.

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_(1) The scripture Hogan refers to is:_

_"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." - Isaiah 40:31_

_**Thank you for reading. Please take a moment more to leave a review. **_

_**To be continued.**_


	28. Chapter 28

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

_A/N: Since I don't know German, I made use of one the translation websites. Hopefully, it didn't whammy me. 'Lieb' reads as 'dear' and 'Schatz' as 'sweetheart'._

**Chapter 28**

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"You must do better, Brunhilde," Josef chided. The hen's ruffled head cocked and one beady, black eye glinted up at him. Lightly stroking the feathers on her back, Josef leaned closer and spoke in a hush, as if afraid of being overheard. "Remember what happened to Vast?" 

Brunhilde's eye closed and she muttered and fussed in her nest. The rooster and the rest of the hens slept on, oblivious of the threat that had been lowered upon one of their own.

Josef chuckled under his breath and after a quick glance at their milk cow to be sure she had enough hay, turned for the door. He kept his lamp high, on guard against stepping on Oskar, their tomcat. As if summoned by mere thought, the yellow-gold cat sprinted out of the shadows, twined around his feet and gazed up at him with hooded eyes. Josef carefully bent down and patted him between the ears.

"Good night, Oskar," Josef whispered, scratching behind the cat's ear. "Guard the barn well, my friend." A rumbly purr went up, its volume rising and falling in time with the massaging. Josef's loving expression turned somber. "Tell me. Do you think he will come tonight?"

Oskar rose up on all tiptoes and rubbed his cheek up and down against Josef's leg, voicing a soft 'ya-a-a-a'.

Josef smiled. "Good." Giving the cat a parting tickle under its white chin, he straightened, grimaced when his knee joints popped. As he turned to go, the light touched upon a corner and his steps faltered. A memory returned, of a time when he had stood in nearly the very same place, and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

It had been his first face-to-face meeting with Colonel Robert Hogan, though at the time, neither had known the other's identity. Robert had been half-frozen from wading the river to evade a patrol. Josef had been in the barn to butcher Vast for the evening meal. With only the cocking of a weapon to alert him, he suddenly found himself confronting a desperate man. None of his assurances had made a difference, and Josef had feared his life was about to end in his own barn. The standoff had ended with Kurt's timely arrival. Upon hearing his friend's voice, Robert had lowered his weapon and fallen unconscious. Throughout that long night, Josef and Romie had joined their son in a frantic fight to keep him alive. _(2)_

Even before they had met that night, Josef had known a great deal about Robert Hogan. The stories Kurt had been able to share described an intelligent, brave man with integrity and a sense of humor, a man who put his men's welfare before his own, and who possessed a talent for succeeding against impossible odds. Most importantly, they revealed a man who had slowly revived Kurt's sense of humor and zest for life. For Josef and Romie, that was more than enough reason to care for the American. Getting to know him personally had only deepened their regard into something more.

Robert could never replace their youngest son, nor fill the terrible void Phillip's death had created in their lives. But in many ways, he had become a part of their family, so much so that they loved him as much as another son.

Oskar butted Josef's leg with the top of his head, voicing another soft 'y-a-a-ah' that sounded almost questioning. Josef looked down to find the cat staring up at him, one white forepaw lifted, toes kneading the air.

"No need for concern, Oskar," Josef assured him. "Just an old man lost in thought."

Purring loudly, Oskar butted Josef's leg again, as if telling him to get inside where it was warmer. Josef sent another glance toward the shadowed corner and headed for the door. Oskar plopped his little furry bottom down and watched him go, still purring and with eyes half closed in sleepy contentment.

Once outside, Josef paused and looked round as was his nightly habit. Full dark was upon them, the blackness so complete that only his lantern and the light from the house penetrated the gloom. A rustling sound came from above and behind him. He twisted and looked up, watched a gray shadow take flight against the stars as the barn owl left for its nightly hunt.

Josef continued on to the house. Mozart was waiting patiently on the porch; tail wagging out a merry greeting. Josef climbed the steps and ran his fingers through the thick black and white coat.

"The end of another day, ja, Mozart?"

Mozart yipped and danced a circle around Josef's feet. He laughed softly. Over the last month, the little dog had slowly thrown off his depression and had begun taking an interest in the farm and its inhabitants. Romie loved him dearly; enjoyed his company while Josef was out doing chores or off the farm. Smiling down at the little dog's antics, Josef realized that he had come to love having Mozart around as well. He only wished their new pet's arrival had not been due to tragic circumstances.

"Let us go in, then," Josef said, grasping the doorknob. Mozart dashed inside the moment the door opened, ran straight to the couch and jumped into Romie's arms. She let out a breathless, 'ooph' and cuddled the wriggling black and white body close. Her attempts at avoiding an enthusiastic tongue bath had little success.

"Did you speak with her?" Romie called to Josef, setting Mozart on the couch. Mozart snuck in a last lick to her nose, turned several times on the cushion and with a deep sigh, curled up nose to tail against her leg.

Josef thought of the hen that had lately not been providing her share of eggs. A laying hen that did not lay was good for only one thing. Supper. "Reminding her of Vast's sudden disappearance appeared to have an effect."

"We shall see in the morning," Romie said, petting Mozart. "We will either have eggs for breakfast or chicken soup for supper."

Josef pursed his lips, waggled his head in silent agreement. Hanging his cap and scarf, he placed the lantern on the table and walked across the room to join her in front of the fire. She smiled up at him, lifting the blanket in invitation. He sat down beside her with soft sound of weariness, leaned back and stretched his feet toward the warmth of the fire. Dropping the blanket over his lap, Romie breathed a happy sigh when he put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

The snuggled in silence for a while, watching the flames burn lower, then Romie asked softly, "Was it tomorrow that Kurt said he had a day off?"

Josef thought a moment, trying to remember what their son had told them of his schedule. "I believe so."

Romie smiled. "That is good. He looked tired, don't you think?"

"Yes," Josef agreed, though he believed their firstborn's pinched expression was more likely due to worrying about Robert's frame of mind rather than his long hours at the Krankenhaus. "Have Karl and Margaret changed their minds about moving to Hammelburg?"

Romie's face grew pensive, her thoughts returning to her visit with Marta's parents that afternoon. Karl and Margaret had been glad to see her, but distracted by their preparations to leave the place that had once held nothing but happy memories for them. "No. They have most of their things packed already." She looked down at Mozart, stroked the soft coat. "Karl's uncle is expecting them at the end of the week."

Josef sadly shook his head. He was about to pose another question when a knock came at the front door. Mozart's head shot up and his eyes instantly lifted to Romie's face to see if she had heard. She twisted on the couch to lock eyes with Josef. A moment later, there was another knock, followed by a pause, two knocks and after another pause, a third. Romie threw off the blanket and sat bolt upright.

"Robert!"

Beaming, Josef slapped his hands upon his thighs and got to his feet, helping her to stand as well. Head cocked and ears pricked, Mozart sat up and watched them with keen interest.

"I will go let our visitor in, Mutter." Josef went quickly to the door, eagerness quickening his steps. Hogan waited on the porch in full night camouflage, looking more apprehensive than a boy on his first date. When he made no sound and no move to enter, Josef gave him a look of fond exasperation and threw his arm wide.

"Come in, Robert. Come in!"

Hogan walked over the threshold, moving as slowly as a man headed to his execution. Josef clapped him on the back, then pulled him into a hug. Hogan tensed, but after a few moments, returned the embrace. Releasing him, Josef stepped back, but kept one hand upon his shoulder.

"It is about time you came to see us," he said with mock severity. His smile faded quickly, concern blanketing his face. "We have been worried about you."

Hogan's gaze lowered. "Thank you for your concern, sir, but I'm fine now thanks to Kurt and my men."

A soft 'woof' went up on the other side of the couch. Mozart flew past Romie and across the room like a black and white missile, nails scrabbling on the wood floor. Hogan blanched at the sight of Marta's beloved pet but held his ground before the mad rush. Mozart skidded to stop at his feet, tongue lolling and tail whipping back and forth. Before Hogan could even blink, the little dog lunged up and planted both front feet on his knee. Hogan stared down at him, hands clenched at his sides, frozen to the spot by the living reminder of that terrible night.

Josef and Romie traded glances.

"I can put him outside if you wish, Robert," Josef offered, understanding gentling his tone.

Hogan shook his head. "No, no. It's okay." Mozart whined and pawed at his knee. Hogan still made no move to pet him.

Romie clapped her hands once. "Come, Mozart."

Mozart glanced from her back to Hogan's face, dropped his front feet to the floor and obediently trotted to Romie. She pointed to the rug before the fire, murmured a few words. Mozart went to the rug and laid down, but in a position where he could keep an eye on everyone.

Hogan brushed a hand over his face. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

Romie rushed across the room. "Please don't leave, Robert! We have missed you so." She took him by the hand, gazed up at him with a pleading expression. "Sit with us for awhile."

Hogan lightly rested his free hand upon her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I've missed you, too," he said softly.

"I will brew some coffee." Josef headed for the kitchen; saddened by the changes Marta's death had wrought upon their foster son. Dark circles hung below Robert's eyes, and he looked drawn and pale. Yet the invisible wounds worried Josef more. Based on what he had seen of Hogan's reactions so far, Kurt's concerns seemed more than justified.

Romie laced her arm through Hogan's and gently guided him toward the couch. "You must be cold from being outside. Let's sit by the fire. The coals are just right."

Josef poked his head out of the kitchen, a kettle in one hand and a towel in the other. "Your men, Robert. How are they?"

That was a safe subject and it brought a slight smile to Hogan's face. Speaking loudly enough for Josef to hear in the kitchen, he shared some stories of their day-to-day lives at Stalag 13. Josef and Romie listened with rapt attention; always eager to hear of Carter, Newkirk, Benson and the other men they had met.

"And you, Robert?" Romie tilted her head to catch his eye, worried by his refusal to look her in the face. "How have you been?"

His lips tightened into a thin line. "Managing. Badly."

Josef carried a tray bearing three cups out of the kitchen. Once everyone had been served, he settled back in his rocker and studied their foster son.

"Nightmares?" he gently questioned.

"Oh, yeah," Hogan breathed, staring down at the cup cradled between his hands. "I thought they'd stop once I was back on my feet and in the swing of things again."

"But they have not," Josef said softly, unsurprised.

Hogan shook his head.

Mozart, sensing the anguish blanketing the room, whined low. His soft brown eyes traveled from face to face, then he dropped his head onto his paws again.

Romie set her cup aside without taking a single drink. "We have had our own, Lieb."

Hogan gave her a sidelong glance. "Of me killing Marta." The lifeless tone was one they had never heard from him before.

"Some," Romie admitted softly. She reached out, gently lifted the cup from his hands and set it beside her own. Grasping his chin, she forced him to look her in the eye. "Most of mine are of you, struggling to reach us and dying just yards from our house." She both saw and felt him flinch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, firelight glistening off the tears in his eyes.

Romie nodded, her hand moving to cup his cheek. "We have wanted so badly to help you, Robert."

Mozart, head still lowered, inched across the braided rug on his belly, one paw at a time toward Hogan's feet. His eyes flicked back and forth between Josef and Romie, but both were too intent upon Hogan to notice.

Josef leaned forward in the rocker, the cup in his hands forgotten. "We knew you were punishing yourself. Denying yourself any chance of comfort, believing you did not deserve it."

"I still don't," Hogan whispered. Romie caressed his cheek, tenderness warming her voice.

"Stop, Schatz." Sadness knit her brow when he pulled back. Turning away, he rested his forearms on his legs and laced his fingers together. His gaze dropped to Mozart, now only inches away, then rose to the fire.

Determined to comfort him, Romie slid closer and lightly stroked the hair at the back of his head. "Your guilt is tearing you apart. You must let it go or you will never get better."

He huffed a weak chuckle. "Kurt said pretty much the same thing."

Josef and Romie shared a quick smile. Amusement crinkled the corners of Josef's eyes.

"Our son has grown wiser over the years."

A thin smile came and went on Hogan's face. Romie glanced down at Mozart as the little dog settled at his feet. Her grin quickly faded as she returned her attention to Hogan.

"You must realize the truth of it, Lieb, or you would not have finally come to us, ja?" She fondly shook her head when he remained silent. "So stubborn."

Josef chuckled softly. "Like Phillip."

"And Kurt," Romie added, smiling.

"I'm sorry," Hogan repeated, staring into the flames. "You've suffered so much loss already. Phillip, Evangeline and the baby, and now I've taken Marta from you." He slowly shook his head, bitterness hardening his expression. "I should've told her when she named me Galahad that I fit the black knight image more. She wanted a protector, but she got a killer."

Frowning, Romie glanced from Josef back to Hogan. "You are a _good man_, Robert Hogan."

He turned his head and looked at her, revealing eyes seething with anger and despair. "There are things you don't know about me. Ugly things. Flying bombers isn't the only thing I've done for my country. My men don't know _all_ the missions I'm given. _You_ don't know how many times I've deliberately used my gun to end someone's life."

Romie held his gaze without flinching, though the darkness in his eyes had her quavering inside. "You are a soldier and must obey orders."

He stared at her, utterly silent. A change slowly came over his face, revealing a coldness that made her breath catch in her throat. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, curling into a cruel smile that sat easy on a face she loved. His gaze bored into her, as if peering into her very soul. Understanding his motivation, she released a deep, steadying breath and slowly shook her head.

"Showing me the man you must become to fulfill your worst missions will not cause me to love you less, Lieb."

"Nor I, Robert." Josef's voice was resolute. Setting his cup on the floor, he leaned forward in the rocker, almost mirroring Hogan's position.

"_That man_ does not own your heart," Romie insisted. "He would not have given Marta's death a second's thought, and he would not be here now, seeking forgiveness and trying to find it within himself."

A shuddering sigh ripped from Hogan's throat. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fingers into white-knuckled fists. Romie tried to put an arm about him, but he edged away, shunning the comfort. He searched her face, anguish and guilt weighting his broken whisper.

"How can either of you stand the sight of me? I put a bullet into the head of a little girl who was only out looking for her dog. A child you both loved like a granddaughter."

Romie managed not to wince at the stark description of Marta's death. "You did not set out to kill _anyone_ that night, Robert, let alone our little Marta. Nor she did intend to place herself in a position to be killed when she went looking for Mozart."

Josef stretched out a hand and clasped one of Hogan's fists. "It was an accident, Robert. You cannot take responsibility for something _no one_ could have foreseen."

Mozart whined and sat up; ears pricked and eyes intent upon Hogan's face.

Hogan stared down at Josef's hand and slowly shook his head. "I don't know if I can . . . can accept what I've done."

Romie gently rubbed his back. "We have already done so."

Hogan said nothing. Josef and Romie's eyes locked. A sigh drifted past Romie's lips, but she kept up the soothing motion upon his back. Tenderness suffused her voice.

"We love Kurt though he heals Gestapo and SS, the very men we swore to fight against. And our love for him does not waver when he is unable to save a life, not even that of his own family."

Josef tightened his grip upon Hogan's fist. "_That_," he said with a gentle smile. "is when we love him _more_."

Hogan's shoulders quivered and his back heaved under Romie's hand. Josef left the rocker and moved to the couch on Hogan's other side. Clasping Hogan's shoulder, he silently offered his love and support.

Romie leaned against Hogan, wrapped an arm about his back. His lashes trembled on his cheeks, glistening in the firelight. Aching for him, Romie pressed closer, hugged tighter.

"The past is the past, Schatz. We can only learn from it, accept it and move on, taking each day as it comes."

Josef nodded, tears in his eyes. "It is how we have managed."

"I don't have the strength you do," Hogan whispered, voice tight with pain.

A tear rolled down Romie's cheek. "Then we shall share ours with you."

Hogan made a choked noise in the back of his throat. Shaking, he slowly folded over until his forehead came to rest on his clenched fists. Romie lovingly gazed down at him, brought one hand to rest upon the back of his head.

"It is all right, Schatz," she whispered, stroking his hair. "Let go of your guilt."

The shaking turned to full-body quaking, but Hogan made no sound. Her face wet with tears, Romie leaned down and rested her cheek against his shoulder. Josef wrapped his arm about him from the other side. Bracketed by their love and warmth, Hogan moaned, and then to their relief, began to sob. They shared watery smiles over his bowed head.

Finally. His healing had truly begun.

* * *

_(2) The Hand of a Friend_

_To be continued . . . Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated like the finest chocolate! ;-)_


	29. Chapter 29

_Thank you so much for your reviews!_

_Thank you for all your help, Marilyn!_

* * *

Hogan slid off the couch, the storm of pent up guilt and grief taking him to his knees. Following him down to the floor, Romie pulled him into her arms and drew his head to her shoulder. He edged backward, still aware enough to worry about hurting her with his greater weight. Romie held on, refusing to let go. It had taken too long for him to reach this point. She was not about to let him withdraw again. Tilting her head to better see his face, she looked directly into eyes swimming with tears. Her whisper was tender with love. 

"Schatz."

Emotions played across his face, too fast for her to identify. He looked away and a moment later, she felt his muscles loosen in surrender. He sagged into her embrace, his focus turning to the simple task of breathing through the great, gulping sobs.

Romie leaned her side against the couch, bracing herself and taking his weight. She clung to him, tears streaking her face, while the long-suppressed grief tore through his body. Hearing an inquisitive noise from Josef, she lifted her head and their eyes locked over Robert's shoulder. Her embrace tightened, the look on her face discouraging any attempts at taking their foster son from her arms. A small grin touched Josef's lips. Spreading his hands wide, he settled back on the couch, thinking he would have better luck wresting a cub from a mother grizzly.

Romie gave him a brief smile, then lowered her cheek to Robert's temple and buried her fingers deep in soft, ebony hair. The sobs soon stopped as quickly as they had begun, the combination of exhaustion and warmth from the fire dragging him toward sleep. Feeling him growing heavier in her arms, Romie glanced up at Josef, silently accepting his earlier offer of help.

Kneeling, Josef pulled Robert out of her arms. His eyes opened to slits, but he remained pliant while they guided him down to the braided rug and settled him on his side, Romie's leg pillowing his head. Mozart crept forward, tail gently wagging, dark eyes flicking back and forth between Josef and Romie. Romie smiled down at him.

"Go ahead, little one," she whispered, nodding. Mozart's long ears pricked, his tail wagging faster. Under Josef and Romie's watchful regard, he stretched out on the rug against Robert's stomach.

Hogan's breathing soon slowed and deepened. Smiles passed between Romie and Josef.

"Is he --?"

"Shhh," Romie hushed, softening the admonishment with a smile. Her gaze lovingly traced Robert's six-foot form, her hand dropping to his shoulder. "He needs rest."

Josef could not argue that. But neither could he prevent his gaze from lifting to the mantle clock. A frown pinched Romie's face.

"Let him sleep, Josef. Please."

If it were up to Josef, they would let him sleep the day away. But the war and their enemies offered no sympathy to exhausted men. Robert had to return to Stalag 13 before dawn.

Josef looked from Romie back to Robert and for a few moments, indulged in watching him rest trustingly in their care, sound asleep at last. Every paternal instinct in his aging body swelled to fierce life. He met Romie's eyes, his mouth curving into a faint smile.

"Thirty minutes, Mutter."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"You need some help?"

"No," Kinch shot back in a forceful whisper. He glared at the alarm wire to the stump's hatch as if it were the source of his discomfort, ignoring what sounded suspiciously like a snicker from below. Once the wire was reattached to the hatch, he shifted his concentration to getting down the ladder as normally as possible.

"You're sure?"

"Yes!" Kinch hissed, releasing a silent sigh when his foot hit the last rung. Gingerly stepping off the ladder, he glared at Benson.

"So help me, Benson, if you ask if I want you to kiss it and make it better, I'll lay you out flat."

Benson's teeth clamped down on his lower lip, tears springing to his eyes. Kinch stared at him, daring him to laugh. A distinct reddish hue traveled up Benson's neck, quickly spread over his camouflage-blackened face. His breathing took on ragged cadence.

"Sorry," came his strangled apology. "But . . . " Benson's eyes flared wide a scant second before a burst of laughter doubled him over. He immediately clamped both hands over his mouth, more to keep the noise from alerting the guards topside than from Kinch's threat. Choked, snuffling noises ensued.

Kinch used the moment Benson's eyes were averted to surreptitiously rub at his sore backside. He had hated briars ever since he was a kid. No matter what he did to avoid the thorn bushes, he always seemed to end up tangling with them. Just like the patch they had spotted tonight. He had thought he was well clear of it, but one long cane had caught and raked him good, tearing deep into tender skin. By the time Benson had cut him free, he was bleeding from several different places and silently swearing a blue streak.

Benson sagged against the wall from lack of air, dropped his hands and dragged in a gasping breath. Kinch's eyes narrowed. Grabbing Benson by the shoulders, Kinch shoved him into the tunnels and away from the entrance.

"Get going," Kinch growled softly, playfully swatting the back of Benson's head with his gloves. "Before I forget I'm a honorable man and club you over the head with something harder." Under his breath, and hopefully beyond Benson's hearing, he muttered, "Damn, I hate briars."

They were almost to the locker room when they heard voices coming from beyond the corner ahead.

"Did you see that thing?"

"What's the big deal, Carter? It's not like we haven't seen one before."

"But that big? It was . . . jeez Louise, it was . . ."

"Huge?"

"Big, anyway."

Kinch and Benson rounded the corner and came upon Carter and Olsen. The two stood just outside the locker room, still in their black clothing and face paint.

Kinch glanced between them. "Has it been completed or are they just building it?"

Puzzled looks flew between Olsen and Carter.

Benson frowned. "The transmitter tower. You found it, right?"

"Oh." A smile spread across Olsen's blackened face. "No."

Kinch sighed. "What were you talking about then?"

"A turtle." Carter held his hands apart, palms facing each other. "You should have seen it, Kinch. It was huge – well, big anyway. The shell was a good ten, eleven inches across and maybe --" Olsen reached over and moved his hands another few inches apart. Carter gave him a quick look and grin. "Okay. More like thirteen --"

"Carter," Kinch sighed again, squashing the urge to roll his eyes. He brushed past and went into the locker room. His hope of finding Hogan and the other members of the search team already there were quickly dashed. LeBeau and O'Malley tossed off waves without looking up from their game of cards. Kinch gave a half-hearted wave in return and went for his locker. O'Malley glanced his way and did a doubletake at his bedraggled appearance.

"What happened to you?"

"Don't ask," Kinch muttered, jerking his locker open.

O'Malley's eyes narrowed. "I just did."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen it," said Carter, backing into the room ahead of Olsen and Benson. "It was —"

"Huge." Benson cut in, folding his arms, a twinkle dancing in his eyes. "Yeah, we heard."

"Big," Olsen corrected with mock gravity, yanking his black sweater over his head. "It was big. Not huge."

"Oh, pardon me," Benson snarked, throwing a look heavenward. "_Not huge_." Giving Carter a pat on the shoulder, he found his own locker and started changing.

LeBeau and O'Malley glanced at each other, then down at their cards and at the same moment, laid them on the table. LeBeau loosely folded his arms and leaned back in his chair to listen and watch.

"What's huge?" Broughton asked, walking into the room with Newkirk. "The tower?"

Kinch's shoulders slumped in tired amusement. "No. Not the tower." He started to sit to take off his boots, felt another painful twinge, and decided to spare his wounded backside at least a little longer. O'Malley noticed the aborted move. His gaze sharpened and he edged forward on his chair, watching Kinch's every move with a medic's keen interest.

Broughton and Newkirk shared frowns. "So what's huge?" Broughton persisted, straddling a bench. Olsen's head popped out from behind his locker door. Laughter laced his voice.

"Big."

"Big, huge," Newkirk groused, pulling his knit cap off and scrubbing fingers through his sweaty hair. "What in the blooming heavens are we talking about here?"

"A turtle!" Kinch, Benson, Olsen and Carter chorused to the ceiling.

LeBeau's relaxed pose vanished, an anticipatory gleam appearing in his eyes. "Did you bring it back with you?"

Carter threw a glance over his shoulder as he hung his shirt. "Why would we do that?"

LeBeau gaped at him in rampant disbelief. To a chef, the answer was obvious. "For soup!"

"Hey, I was just talking about soup," Paxton announced, striding into the room. "Wasn't I, Braveheart?"

"You were." Braveheart stalked past, threading a path through the increasingly crowded room. Resting a palm over his stomach, Paxton sniffed the air and faced LeBeau, the source of all things delicious.

"So where is it? All that scouting left this scout starving."

LeBeau's gaze darkened and his mouth opened, scathing French invectives on the tip of his tongue.

"Forget the soup." Kinch's even tone was edged with warning. "Forget the thirteen-inch BIG turtle." His gaze slowly raked over every man present. "Somebody tell me they found that transmitter."

"Okay." Paxton cut a sly grin toward Braveheart, who turned it upon Kinch, a glint of satisfaction in his black eyes.

"We found the transmitter."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan opened swollen eyes, feeling congested, heavy-limbed and scoured raw from the inside out. He drifted for several moments, until flickering shadows and a red glow piqued his curiosity. Blinking, he cleared the haze from his vision and discovered that he was looking at the fireplace from an odd, sideways perspective. A thick bed of coals and embers was all that remained of the fire, the heat blanketing him from head to toe.

A yawn took him by surprise, the weight that shifted against his stomach, even more so. Tucking his chin toward his chest, he looked down, directly into a pair of moist, brown eyes. Mozart wriggled forward and swiped a slobbery, doggy kiss right across the tip of his nose. Hogan wrinkled it in disgust, which Mozart took as a sign that he wanted another one.

A deep-throated chuckle came from somewhere near Hogan's feet and he looked beyond Mozart to the rocker. Josef was there, mouth a slight curve of contentment around his pipe, eyes half-closed but watchful.

A smile flickered over Hogan's face, stretching skin that felt stiff from the dried salt of tears.

Fingers lightly touched his cheek, lingered, then slid along his jaw in a loving caress. His eyelids drooped shut again, sleep beckoning like the sun on a chill day.

The mantle clock's chimes rang out the hour. Adrenaline flooded nerve and muscle, energizing heavy limbs. His eyes snapped open, sought and met the brilliant, blue pair above. Sadness touched Romie's expression.

"Time to go, Schatz."

He nodded slowly, reluctant to leave the love, security and sense of home he found with them. Mozart panted and wriggled against his stomach; tail thumping out a rhythm on the braided rug. The rocker creaked and squealed and Hogan knew without looking that Josef's lethargy and contentment had vanished like his own.

Hogan hauled himself to his feet, being careful not to step on Mozart. The little dog danced in a tight circle before him, then reared onto his back legs and pawed the air, long ears flopping backward. Tears prickled Hogan's eyes and he went to a knee and opened his arms. Mozart jumped into them, bathed his face with warm drool. Hogan buried his nose in the black and white coat, picturing Marta's cherubic face.

"Sorry, little guy," he whispered. "Not your fault, either." Mozart drew back, coated his nose with another sloppy kiss. Huffing in mock disgust, Hogan gently set Mozart on his feet, wiped his sleeve across his nose, and straightened to face Josef and Romie. They regarded each other for several long moments and then Hogan stepped into their embrace.

Romie brushed a kiss to his cheek. "Be safe, Schatz."

Josef clapped him on the shoulder. "Do not stay away so long this time, ja?"

"No sir," Hogan answered dutifully, not even trying to evade the playful cuff to his head. "Josef."

Josef sobered and stared into his eyes. "Remember what was said here tonight, Robert."

Hogan's gaze held steady. "Yes, sir."

Josef canted his head in warning, but could not hold onto his stern expression. A small grin chased across Hogan's expression, vanishing quickly when he saw the time. He stepped back, the mantle of command dropping over him again, straightening his shoulders. He glanced from one to the other, love softening his gaze, lacing his quiet words.

"Thank you."

They nodded as one. Their eyes followed him out the door, then went to each other.

Noting how little time remained until Kurt was due to arrive, Josef smiled tenderly into Romie's eyes.

"I don't see any reason to go to bed now, do you Mutter?"

In answer, Romie plopped onto the couch and curled up, tucking her legs beneath her. Weariness slowing his movements, Josef stirred the embers, threw a couple of logs into the grate, and joined her on the couch. Romie leaned and wiggled against his shoulder and side, changing positions until she found a comfortable one. Josef did a little wiggling of his own, seeking and finding the depression in the worn cushion that fit him perfectly after many years of use. His eyes closed, then cracked open again.

"Comfortable, my love?"

Romie hummed out a soft 'ja', already hovering at the edge of sleep.

Mozart yawned wide, flopped to the floor by the fire, then seconds later changed his mind and jumped onto the couch. Settling at Romie's feet, he released a long, moaning sigh and dropped his head to his paws.

Minutes later, all three were snoring.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Getting late."

"Uh, huh," Kinch grunted, glancing up at Olsen. "There's no need to stay if you want to grab some shut-eye."

"Nope, I'm fine," Olsen hastened to say. As if to emphasize the claim, he smiled brightly and sticking his hands into his pockets, sauntered about the room. His circuitous route passed close to the wall map and he paused in front of it, appearing to study it with avid interest.

Kinch watched him for a moment, then his gaze cut to the other men hanging around. Besides the other members of the scout team, LeBeau, O'Malley, Tivoli, Benson and Jones had all set up camp around the room, ostensibly to shoot the breeze. Kinch knew better, but did not have the heart to order them away again. Hopefully, Hogan would be in better frame of mind when he returned, and think nothing of the crowd.

"You doing okay?" O'Malley's expression bore only the trace of a smile.

Kinch nodded, thankful the medic had not made an issue of the deep scratch across his posterior. "That ointment did the trick, Ben. Thanks."

A twinkle sparked in O'Malley's eyes, his smile gaining some strength. "Don't mention it."

Kinch's gaze fell to his watch and his heart sank. Olsen was right. It was late. At the edge of his vision, he saw Carter and LeBeau notice him checking the time, and was not surprised when they joined him at the table. Carter took a seat on the opposite side, his face drawn with worry.

"Where do you suppose he went, Kinch?"

LeBeau frowned. "Do you think he's trying to find Tiger?"

Newkirk dragged a chair up to the table. "Maybe he went back to where it all began."

Paxton and Broughton noticed the growing number at the table and decided to join the group. Not wanting to miss out on anything, the remainder of the men soon followed, forming a loose circle about the small table.

"Where it all began? You mean where he --" Paxton bit off his words at Kinch's sharp look. "to where the shooting happened?"

Jones folded his arms, lowered his head to stare at the table. "To find some peace?"

Tivoli's black eyes widened and flew to Kinch. "You don't think . . ."

Everyone instantly caught on to what he was implying. All eyes jerked to Kinch, horror and shock freezing their expressions.

"Dear heaven," O'Malley groaned, slapping a palm to his forehead. "I hadn't thought about--"

Kinch shook his head, opened his mouth, ready to calm them.

"_Mon Dieu_!" LeBeau looked close to despair. Kinch gripped him by the shoulder, again tried to be heard.

"Kinch!" Carter gasped, white-faced and beside himself with worry.

Kinch shot to his feet and raised his hands, palms out, like a man trying to hold back a flood. "Stop it. The colonel would **never** take his own life."

A quiet ding rang through the room, heralding Hogan's return. Kinch dropped his hands, flashing a smile.

"That should be him."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Grabbing his medical bag, Kurt dragged it out of the car, pivoted and back-kicked the door closed. The shift had been a string of emergency cases, a blur of blood and pain. All he wanted to do now was check on his parents, fall into bed, pull the blankets over his head and sleep until his next shift.

He took a single step, fumbling with the bag and his keys, glanced up and stopped in his tracks. For several seconds, he stood motionless, head tilted to one side, wondering what had snagged his attention. Slowly, he circled the front of the car and looked at the barnyard.

It was empty. No chickens busily pecking and scratching at the dirt.

The hand holding the medical bag jerked up toward his nose. His gaze zeroed in on his wristwatch, then lifted to the rose-hued sky.

On cue, a rousing 'cock-a-doodle-doo' went up from inside the barn.

Kurt stared at the barn's closed double doors. At this hour of the day, they should have been thrown open, his father inside, doing the morning milking while Oskar waited for a taste.

As if echoing his thoughts, the cow lowed, sharing the discomfort of a full udder.

The first tendrils of fear slithered up Kurt's spine. Heart thudding in his chest, his gaze flew to windows.

The curtains were still drawn. The house was completely dark.

There were very things in life that he could count on without fail: The sun coming up and going down, waves of emergencies minutes before the end of his shift, Newkirk's inability to make good coffee, and Robert claiming he was 'fine' despite having multiple broken limbs and a raging fever.

But the number one constant since his childhood had been that his parents were always out of bed before the first bird had sung a morning song.

A flood of adrenaline popped Kurt's eyes wide. Sprinting up the steps, he yanked the door open, ran inside and stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of loud snoring. Panic still singing in his ears, he blindly dropped his bag on the table, somehow not knocking the lantern off, and went into the gathering room.

Still fully dressed, his parents were sprawled on the couch in each other's arms. Mozart lay flat on his side at his mother's feet, all four paws twitching as he chased dreams.

The last of Kurt's panic left him in a rush of breath. Weak-kneed, he crouched and picked the blanket off the floor, spread it over his parents and gently tucked it around them. His father's snoring hitched, his head lolling toward Kurt.

"Kurt?" The voice was sleep-drunk slurred; the eyes that cracked open and turned to him still lost in dreams.

"Ja, Vater," Kurt whispered, flicking a glance down to see if his mother had also awakened. The rhythm of her slow, deep breathing went on unchanged. Kurt rested his hand upon his father's shoulder. "Go back to sleep." His father's eyes slowly rolled toward the brightening window. Kurt briefly squeezed the shoulder that still held a wiry strength won from a life of hard work. "I'll take care of the chores. Sleep."

His father's lips twitched, then settled again, his eyes already closing. Kurt waited until he was certain both were sleeping peacefully, then leaned over his mother, dropped a kiss onto the top of her head, and went out to take care of the animals.

His heart was light and his smile stayed with him while he opened the barn, fed the chickens and cow, and did the milking. He could think of only one reason for his parents to have stayed up so late that they had not bothered to go to bed.

They must have had a very late-night visitor.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! To be continued . . ._


	30. Chapter 30

_Sorry for the long delays between chapters!_

_As always, mistakes are all mine as I can't help but play with the chapter after Marilyn's looked it over. I can't thank her enough for her help!_

* * *

**Chapter 30**

The voices coming from the locker room took Hogan by surprise. At oh-three hundred, most of his men were usually asleep in their bunks, not hanging out in the tunnels.

Wondering what the hubbub was about, he padded silently to the corner and peeked around the support beam. Seeing the large flock of mother hens roosting inside the locker room brought a smile to his face. It quickly faded when a thought suddenly occurred to him. Such a gathering would have provoked only resentment and anger from him just days before.

Smoothing the frown from his face, Hogan backed a short distance down the tunnel, then moved forward again at a brisk walk. The men spotted him as soon as he turned the corner, their smiles and hearty greetings warming him.

"Hey, fellas." He spotted an empty chair and headed for it, hoping he did not look as tired as he felt. Despite his impromptu nap at the Metzger's, his energy was circling the drain fast. Straddling the chair, he folded his arms across its back and looked from man to man with interest.

"Anybody find the transmitter?"

"We did, Colonel." Paxton draped an arm across Braveheart's shoulders. "It was smack in the middle of our search grid."

"That wasn't the only thing found tonight," Benson said, aiming a mischief-filled glance past Tivoli at Carter and Olsen. Tivoli's elbow dug into his ribs while groans and muttering sounded throughout the room. Kinch thrust a hand into the air, irritation sharpening his voice.

"Don't start that again."

Hogan frowned. "Start what?"

"Nothing," Newkirk shot back with restrained passion. "Best to just move on, Colonel."

Hogan considered Newkirk's exasperation and Kinch's pained look and decided to follow the advice. The sooner they ended this, the sooner they all could get their rest.

"Did you have any trouble?"

"No, sir," Paxton said, shaking his head. "We took a good look around, then got out of there like you ordered."

Braveheart turned toward a map hung on the wall and with a lazy motion of his finger, indicated the single, red circle drawn upon it. "That's where the Krauts have it."

Hogan left his chair and walked across the room for a closer look. Kinch stood to join him. Out of the corner of his eye, Hogan noticed the slightly stiff way he was moving and turned to study him in concern.

"What happened to you?"

Embarrassment passed quickly over Kinch's face. "Brambles. Nothing serious." His eyes silently begged the matter be dropped.

Hogan considered the silent plea, then looked beyond Kinch's shoulder. O'Malley met his stare with a bland expression and a minute shake of his head. Reassured and wanting to spare Kinch further embarrassment, Hogan turned back to the map without another word. Kinch crossed the remaining distance between them and settled at his right shoulder.

"It's not fully built yet, but they're close to finishing based on what Paxton and Braveheart told me. The defenses are tough, Colonel --"

"But we've taken on tougher," Carter interjected from his seat at the table. "You'll think of something, boy. Sir."

"Just not tonight," Hogan countered, briefly returning Carter's grin. Turning, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and waved everyone toward the tunnels. "We've still got some time before Schultz calls us for roll call, fellas. Get some sleep while there's a chance."

Kinch deliberately lagged behind until the last man had cleared the room. Once he was certain that they were completely alone, he faced Hogan with a raised eyebrow.

"Did it help?"

Hogan gave him an unreadable look. "Did what help?"

"Whatever it was that you did tonight."

"Oh, that," Hogan quipped. Sobering, he took a seat at the table and brushed the fingers of both hands through his hair. "I went to see Josef and Romie."

Kinch pulled up the chair across from him. "About time, sir."

That brought a wan smile to Hogan's lips. "It was good seeing them again. Even better hearing they don't blame me for Marta's death."

"I would have been surprised if they had," Kinch said softly.

Hogan's expression softened with affection. "You've got to meet them sometime, buddy. One visit and you're a member of the family."

"I don't exactly fit the bill." Kinch's tone was neutral.

Hogan blinked. The fact that Kinch was black had not even entered his mind. It did not make any difference to him and he knew it would not to Josef and Romie, either. He looked Kinch directly in the eye, conviction filling his voice.

"They didn't blame me for killing Marta. They sure won't let the color of your skin keep them from adopting you, too."

Kinch's mouth curled in a warm smile. After a brief pause, he carefully repeated his earlier question. "Did your visit with them help?"

Hogan's gaze flickered, then dropped to the table's top. It was a few moments before he spoke. "Some, I guess." He glanced up. "The truth is, I don't honestly know for sure."

Several minutes of silence passed between them, and then Hogan blew out a long breath and stared into the distance.

"Until a few days ago, I thought I'd learned to live with the guilt of killing people. But Marta was apparently the last straw." His voice fell to a whisper. "I broke down. Bawled like a baby in Romie's arms and then . . ." He huffed a weak chuckle, embarrassed. "I fell asleep right in the middle of the Metzger's living room."

"Catharsis," Kinch murmured. "All those years of suppressed guilt finally caught up with you."

Hogan shrugged, his gaze falling again. "There's still the question of whether I'll be able to use my gun when the time comes."

Kinch sighed. "No way of knowing until that time's upon you."

Hogan looked up. "You wouldn't happen to have a crystal ball stashed somewhere would you?"

Amusement sparked in Kinch's eyes. "Sorry. Fresh out."

Hogan heaved a sigh of high drama, got to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. "You've been pulling some long hours. Get some rest."

Kinch stood, but made no move to leave. "You coming?"

"Soon as I change and get rid of what's left of the face paint." Hogan jerked his chin toward the tunnel. "Go on, mom. I'll see you upstairs."

"Don't forget to clean behind your ears," Kinch teased back.

Hogan loosed a mock growl and stabbed a finger at the doorway. Impish smile firmly in place, Kinch touched fingers to his forehead and left for Barracks Two. Hogan sank back onto the chair and for several minutes, contemplated how lucky he was to serve with the men under his command.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"You weren't kidding."

A faint grin tugged at Kinch's mouth.

Hogan favored him with a glare. "This place makes Fort Knox look like a kiddie playground." He broke eye contact and looked down at the sketch representing the site. "Ten-foot fences topped with barbed wire. Two perimeter guards on every fence. More guards posted around the tower itself."

"Don't forget the security lights," Newkirk groused.

Carter glanced down at the marks denoting the four floodlights. "But they're not lit."

"They're kept dark to hide the site from bombers," Hogan said, still studying the drawing. "They'll light up quick enough, though, if an alert is sounded." He sat down, braced an elbow on the desk and rested his chin atop his fist.

Braveheart leaned in and laid a broad fingertip upon the paper. "There's a blind spot right here, created by the buildings inside the south fence. The guards walking that part of the perimeter are out of sight of everyone else for about one hundred feet."

"We could take them here." Kinch indicated the mid-point of the guards' route. "Right after they've met in the middle and turned to retrace their steps. We get them from behind, when their backs are to each other. Once they're out of the way, a couple of our guys take their places walking the fence, leaving us free to cut it and go inside."

"What then?" Hogan challenged, sitting up. "Once inside, there's a wide stretch of open ground between us and the tower. There's no way to cross it without being seen."

Newkirk considered the sketch with narrowed eyes. "I got just the thing." He looked up, grinned wide at everyone. "Invisibility cloaks."

"Ha, ha," LeBeau growled, unamused.

An exchange of sarcasm followed, liberally salted with Carter's comments about the possibility of invisibility one day becoming reality. Hogan's eyes drifted back and forth over the sketch, looking for a way to destroy the tower without getting his men killed in the process. His gaze passed over a group of small circles representing a cache of fuel barrels, paused, then skidded back. A light went on in his head, complete with full orchestral accompaniment. A grin slowly stretched across his face. Noticing it, his men fell silent with expectation.

"We don't have to destroy the tower," Hogan explained. "All we have to do is give the bombers a target." He turned to Carter. "How's your supply of firecrackers?"

Carter's focus turned inward, his lips moving as he did a quick mental inventory of his stock. "We have plenty, sir." His expression brightened. "The firecrackers will make the Krauts think they're under attack!"

Braveheart stared into the distance as if watching the scene unfold. "They turn the floodlights on . . ."

Paxton took up the narrative next. "And our guys have a perfect bull's eye to aim at."

"But we can't count on the Krauts leaving the lights on long enough for our bombers to zero in on the site," Hogan pointed out.

Kinch nodded. "They'll douse them soon as they hear the planes coming."

"The firecrackers are more for a diversion." Hogan drew their attention to the sketch again. "While the Krauts are chasing ghosts in the woods, we'll be setting some of Carter's special explosives next to these fuel barrels. When those go up, the fire will be bright enough to be seen from Berlin."

LeBeau's pleasure rang in his voice, his eyes bright with malice. "The flames will be like a beacon."

"And the tower will get blown sky high," Paxton said, grinning.

Newkirk chuckled. "And then, it'll come tumbling down."

Hogan and Kinch made eye contact. "Get on the radio," Hogan ordered. "Find out the earliest a squadron can be formed."

* * *

**_Thank you for reading! _**


	31. Chapter 31

_Thank you for your help, Marilyn! As always, gaffs are all mine, as I couldn't help but play with it afterward._

* * *

**Chapter 31**

Adrenaline flowed like electricity through Hogan's body. Pressure came at him from both sides, boxing him in, narrowing his choices to one. He dodged, sighted and took the shot, waited to see if his aim had been true. The ball tapped the rim, rolled along the metal hoop with agonizing slowness, stopped, teetered on the edge . . . and fell through. A cheer went up behind him and dual groans from either side.

"Two points!" Kinch crowed, thrusting his fists skyward. He trotted over to Hogan and they slapped palms, sharing wide grins of victory.

Newkirk chased down the basketball, wearing a sour look and grumbling under his breath. Palming the ball into a lazy dribble, he rejoined them beneath the rusted barrel ring that was their basket ball hoop.

"Lady Luck's smiling on you today, Colonel Hogan."

Benson, hands on hips, face and shirt damp with perspiration, glanced between Hogan and Kinch.

"Best of three?"

Hogan and Kinch traded looks. Hogan's lips pursed and his eyebrows rose in a 'why not' expression. He was enjoying the competition and it was keeping his mind occupied. Word had finally come from London that a squadron would fly out tonight to hit the transmitter tower. Preparations on their end had been ready for the last two days. Now they just had to endure the remaining time until they could leave camp.

The light of battle returned to Kinch's expression as he locked eyes with Benson. "You're on."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"But of course . . . Yes, yes. Major, I will --"

The voice at the other end of the line rose to a screech. Klink threw himself back in his chair and closed his mouth, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. Hochstetter was still far from well, but far enough from death's door now to be making _his_ life miserable again. Hurriedly pulling the receiver away from his ear to save his hearing, Klink glared at the ceiling and waited for the strident rant to lose steam. That took several minutes. As soon as the first measurable moment of silence came over the line, Klink sat bolt upright and snapped his eyes forward as if Hochstetter were standing before his desk rather than lying in a bed miles away.

"Are you certain that is wise? You – but – "

The yell that blasted from the receiver threatened to split Klink's head in two. Eyes squinted in pain, he thrust the phone to arm's length and at that distance had no trouble hearing every shouted word. When the volume dropped below deafening levels, he brought the receiver back to his ear and spoke in a rush.

"Jawhol, Herr Major. I understand, Herr Major." Pasting on a sickly smile, Klink snapped his right hand up, palm out, fingers tight together. "Heil Hitler."

A loud click sounded over the line and the phone went dead. Klink's smile swiftly changed to a glower. He replaced the receiver in its cradle with the same care he would use to handle dynamite, shot to his feet and went straight to the window.

Outside, Hogan and three of his men were deeply involved in yet another game of basketball. The four circled and danced around each other slowly, then with increasing speed. Hogan pivoted toward the ring – That was not right. _The hoop._ And took a . . . Klink frowned. _Throw? Toss? No. Pass! _Hogan took a pass from Kinchloe - who was apparently working with him against Benson and the Englander, Newkirk – and bounced the ball . . . Klink sought the correct term, a grunt of annoyance slipping out. _Dribble!_ He snorted to himself. _What a ridiculous word. _

A shout went up outside, and he refocused on the action. Hogan no longer had the ball.

Kinchloe stood bent at the knees beneath the metal hoop fastened to the recreation hall, the ball gripped between his hands, a fierce grin on his face. Benson and Newkirk were bobbing and weaving before him, hands waving to and fro in the air, their good-natured taunts loud enough to be heard through the panes of glass. Klink unlatched the windows and pushed them open, drawn by the obvious pleasure the four men were deriving from a mere game.

Kinchloe's movements appeared to slow and then he exploded into action, somehow managing to slip between Newkirk and Benson.

Klink rose onto the balls of his feet without even realizing it.

Benson whirled, danced sideways into Kinchloe's path and jumped, blocking the other man from taking a shot. Kinchloe feinted left, twirled right and sent the basketball flying in a high arc over Newkirk's raised hands. Hogan leaped, caught the ball mid-air, and came down in a crouch a few yards from the basket. Benson and Newkirk immediately converged upon him.

Klink hissed in a breath, his hand jerking up and tightening into a fist.

"Wait . . ." he breathed, watching Hogan maneuver for the shot. "Wait . . ."

Hogan bounced the ball in the dirt once, twice. Benson and Newkirk hopped back and forth before him. Hogan eyed the hoop and his opponents, biding his time.

"Throw it," Klink snapped under his breath, white-knuckling the windowsill with both hands.

As if he had been awaiting the order, Hogan jumped straight into the air and with a flick of his right hand, lobbed the ball at the hoop. Klink leaned out the window, eyes following the flight of the ball as it fell cleanly through the metal ring. A cheer erupted from him, mingling with Kinchloe's loud whoop of triumph.

Klink jerked back into the room and against the wall beside the window, well out of sight of anyone outside. When the sounds of the game continued unabated, he eased away from the wall, stunned that he had forgotten himself so completely. He straightened his uniform, nervously passed a hand back over his head, and took a stand directly before the window. Spine straight, head up and hands tucked at his back, he struck a dignified pose, as if he was merely taking a moment from his paperwork to enjoy the fresh air. Within moments, however, he was leaning on the windowsill once more, completely engrossed. Only this time, his focus remained steadfast upon Hogan alone, concentration marking a crease in his brow.

The American had come a long way from the dreadfully ill man who had lain in bed for so long. The gaunt, pale reflection was finally gone. Hogan's face glowed from sun and exertion. Muscles worked smoothly under the sweat-stained shirt.

Klink nodded to himself. Not only had Hogan regained his health, the basketball game showed that his zest for life had returned as well.

That was good. Hogan would be on his toes when Hochstetter arrived. Ready to face the Gestapo officer with wit and sarcasm, a cocky, self-assured smile and ingenious misdirection. He would have no trouble . . .

Horror sluiced over Klink from head to toe. He retraced his line of thinking while his eyes, as if on their own volition, followed Hogan's every move. He was actually rooting for the American! Against his fellow country man!

A second thought made Klink feel faint. If Hochstetter found what he expected . . . then sarcasm and misdirection would be useless. Two men would stand before a firing squad before the day was over. . . and one of them would be Wilhelm Klink.

Klink grabbed the windows and yanked them closed, snapped the curtains shut and walked back to his desk in a daze. As he slowly lowered himself into his chair, his eyes fell upon the telephone and a fresh torrent of horror poured over him.

They were doomed.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan zipped the ball into Newkirk's hands. "That's the game."

Newkirk rested the ball against his hip, wiped his brow.

"Best of five, then?"

"Nope." Hogan squinted up at the sun, shielding his eyes against the glare. "That's enough. We don't want to wear ourselves out."

"That's right." Kinch blotted his face with the back of his sleeve, grimaced. The cloth was just as damp and fragrant as the rest of him. "Big night tonight."

Benson draped an arm around Newkirk's shoulders. "Good game, partner."

The praise was a poor balm to Newkirk's competitive spirit. His face screwed up in disgust. "Not nearly good enough to win."

Benson slapped him on the back. "So we practice and get them next time."

Hearing him, Kinch turned their way and extending a hand, waggled two fingers in beckoning gesture. Benson threw back his head and laughed.

"Colonel Hogan!"

Hogan looked toward Klink's headquarters. Schultz stood on the first step to the porch, energetically waving an arm. Giving in to a mischievous urge, Hogan lazily waved back. Schultz rolled his eyes and balled his hands on his hips. The look on his face spoke volumes.

Hogan ambled to the bench where he had left his crush cap and jacket. As he took his time putting them on, his thoughts turned to Klink. Over the last month, something about the kommandant had changed. It was nothing obvious. But it was enough to keep drawing his attention.

Hogan was suddenly reminded of a day when he had climbed into his bomber and something about it had felt wrong. Every one of the gauges on the plane's instrument panel had read normal. But the plane had felt different, somehow. Unable to find a problem, Hogan had taken off with the rest of the squadron. But that sense of wrongness had only grown stronger each moment they were in the air. Unwilling to risk his men's lives, he had broken formation and returned to base. There, after hours of thorough inspection of every inch of the plane and intense questioning by his superiors for abandoning the mission, a mechanic had located the problem. One of the cables that controlled the ailerons had frayed to the point of breaking. Only a handful of thin metal strands remained intact. Had he not turned back, the cable would have completely snapped at some point during the mission, sending the plane – and every man aboard – plummeting from the sky.

That troubling sensation was back now, and it had something to do with Klink. Hogan just had to figure out what it was.

"Colonel Hogan, please," Schultz whined from the porch. "You know the kommandant does not like to be kept waiting."

Hogan sauntered to the base of the steps and looked up at Schultz. "He could stand to learn a little patience."

Schultz's face fell. "Please. Leave the lessons for when I am not around."

"Gotcha," Hogan chuckled, following him inside.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

The sun was noticeably lower when Hogan walked out of Klink's headquarters. Pausing on the porch to stretch, he gave his watch a passing glance to confirm how long he had been stuck inside. Klink always tended to ramble, especially when nervous, but this time the chatter had bordered on lunacy.

For close to thirty minutes, Klink had jumped from topic to topic, never reaching a point, never giving a reason for the summons. Then, with a strange light in his eyes and an odd inflection in his voice, he had mentioned that Hochstetter would be stopping by Stalag 13. The usual plethora of complaints about Hochstetter had followed, but small seeds of useful information had been scattered among them.

Hochstetter was not due to arrive for several hours, and would not be staying. He was, for the most part, confined to bed. On the rare occasion when he left it - like today - his injuries and weakened condition warranted a wheelchair. That definitely worked in Hogan's favor. Hochstetter's legendary ego would never allow him to show weakness of any kind in front of POWs, especially Hogan. Since Klink had not ordered all prisoners be confined to barracks, the odds were very good that Hochstetter planned to stay in his staff car.

And that would be Hogan – and his men's – saving grace.

Hogan tilted his head back, breathing deeply. He had gotten more than his share of second chances in life, along with a lion's share of third and fourth ones. Had Tiger not shot Hochstetter, the Gestapo officer would have checked on Hogan a lot sooner, and that would have meant the end of everything.

Tiger. They'd still not gotten news about her and it was hard not to worry. She was more to him than just an ally. So much more. The saying about absence making the heart grow fonder definitely applied. The longer they were apart this time, the more he was coming to realize how very much he wanted her in his life. Always. But for the moment, he had to shelve his concern and focus on the more pressing matter of Hochstetter's immenent arrival.

Hogan pushed off the post and went down the steps, thinking ahead to the preparations that would hopefully keep them from facing a firing squad. A bizarre idea suddenly popped into his head, derailing his planning and stopping him in his tracks.

If he did not know better, he could almost believe that the purpose of Klink's summons had been to warn him. Laughing, he shook the thought out of his head, and walked on to Barracks Two.

To quote Kurt: "That would happen when swine flew."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan and the rest of the prisoners of Barracks Two were outside their humble abode when Hochstetter's car rumbled through the front gates. Klink suddenly appeared on his porch, as though he had been waiting just inside the door. He flew down the steps to meet the car, Schultz moving with alacrity to keep up. Hogan clasped his arms across his chest and shifted his weight into a hip-shot stance. Comfortably settled and looking as though he did not have a care in the world, he watched the black staff car stop before Klink's headquarters. The window rolled down, Klink whipped off a salute and leaned forward at the waist, his face screwed into a pained expression. The late afternoon sun painted deep shadows inside the car, hiding all but Hochstetter's shoulder from view, but his bellicose voice cut through the air quite clearly.

"Idiot! Back away!"

Klink quick-stepped backward, forcing Schultz into a sideways two-step to avoid a collision. Hochstetter's growl preceded him as his pasty, hollow-cheeked face appeared in the open window.

"HOGAN!"

Hogan drew himself up and strode toward the car, leaving his men behind. Halfway to the car, images and sensations from his nightmares engulfed him, flooding his nostrils with the smell of blood and taunting him with distorted versions of Hochstetter's face. Hogan's stomach knotted, but his stride never faltered, his expression never wavered. He stopped before the window and smiled down into the furious black eyes.

"Major. Long time no see."

Anger mottled Hochstetter's face. "Take off your jacket and shirt!"

Hogan jerked his head back, the picture of surprise. "Delousing inspection was the first of the month."

Klink edged forward. "Major, the Geneva Con --"

Hochstetter lurched back from the window. There was a flurry of movement within the car, then he thrust a gun out the window, aiming it right at Hogan's head. Klink let out a weak squeak of surprise and jumped back.

"Strip to the waist or I shoot you where you stand," Hochstetter snarled, his finger on the trigger and his extended arm steady as a rock.

Hogan unzipped his bomber jacket and slowly started peeling it off his shoulders. "Good thing I took a shower earlier."

Hochstetter's lips curled back from his teeth, malevolence twisting his expression. The gun waggled menacingly before Hogan's face, close enough he could smell cordite on the freshening breeze. Either it was his imagination again, or the gun had recently been fired. He was banking on the latter. Target practice, probably, with his face pasted on the bull's eye.

Hogan handed off the jacket to Klink, who promptly shoved it against Schultz's chest. The guard's hands jerked up in self-defense, automatically closed upon the body-warmed, butter-soft leather. Hogan's fingers skipped down shirt buttons, freeing them from cloth. Cool air tickled his bare belly. Hochsetter's eyes gleamed with avarice and anticipation. Hogan heard the muttering behind him grow louder. His men, voicing their displeasure at the turn of events. Hogan focused on pulling shirttails from his trousers, refusing to feel ridiculous about the situation. Goaded by his placid expression, Hochstetter's lips twisted from a sneer into another snarl. The gun jerked upward, sunlight glancing off the barrel. Hogan shed the shirt and let it dangle by the neck from the fingers of one hand. Hochstetter's slitted eyes roved over his torso from shoulders to waist, from side to side, down one arm and back up, across and down the other arm. Hogan obligingly held them out to each side. The black gaze snapped up to his face and the gun waggled once more.

"Turn!"

Hogan performed a slow turn and found a solid wall of prisoners had formed in a half-circle less than twenty feet away. Steel-eyed and stiff with outrage on his behalf, his men quieted when he gave them a 'come on, fellas, this isn't helping' look.

A strangled sound of rage went up behind Hogan. He peeked back over his shoulder. Hochstetter was leaning heavily against the inside of the car door, his free hand clamped upon the window frame. Klink hesitantly shuffled closer to the car, just as hesitantly bent toward Hochstetter.

"Are you all right, Major?"

Breathing hard, Hochstetter raked his gaze over Hogan's back again. "It can't be . . . the truck . . . there was blood high on the back of the seat . . . I was certain . . . "

At the edge of his vision, Hogan caught sight of looks of supreme satisfaction passing between his men.

"Turn!" Hochstetter shouted, thumping his fist upon the window frame. The gun was wobbling badly now, his arm shaking. Klink glanced from the loaded weapon to Hogan and nervously licked his lips.

Hogan made another slow turn and arched an eyebrow down at Hochstetter. "You want to tell me what you're looking for?"

"The major had the ridiculous notion that you are a saboteur and that you had been wounded by one of our patrols," Klink said, cutting a glance in Hogan's direction. "But as he can plainly see," Klink's gaze fixed upon Hochstetter and his voice gained in strength. "You bear absolutely no evidence of bullet wounds."

Hogan turned wide eyes from Klink to Hochstetter. "That's what this strip show is about?"

Klink tittered, relieved while Hochstetter was furious. "This lays to rest once and for all, the insane idea that you could simply walk in and out of camp whenever you please. Such a thing is completely implausible! No one escapes from Stalag 13!"

The lost look melted from Hochstetter's face, rage again suffusing it a deep red. His voice shook with barely checked fury.

"Klink –"

Smiling ear to ear, Klink clicked his heels together and bent toward Hochstetter. "Ja?" The end of the gun jerked and came to rest between his eyes. Klink went stock still. Schultz, holding Hogan's jacket in a death grip before his chest, literally stopped breathing. Hochstetter's livid gaze tracked from Hogan to Klink.

"Shut up or die."

Klink swallowed, too terrified to even nod. Hogan knew better than to provoke Hochstetter with any more comments. His father had taught him to never poke a wounded animal with a stick. That was when they were at their most dangerous.

He stood quiet while Hochstetter's gaze ran over him again, a range of emotions playing over the Gestapo officer's face. Anger, confusion, speculation and finally envy. Hogan imagined Hochstetter was more than painfully aware of his own crippled state, while Hogan stood before him, healthy and strong.

Without another glance Klink's way, Hochstetter spat at Hogan's feet and pulled back inside the car. The window went up and the car roared toward the front gates, leaving Hogan, Schultz and Klink coughing in a cloud of dust.

Hogan gazed down at his dust-coated torso and sighed.

"I need another shower."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"I need a drink," Newkirk moaned to the ceiling from his bunk. "Or six."

LeBeau dropped onto one of the benches at the common room table and buried his face in his hands. "I will join you." Carter, seated next to him with his head cradled on his arms, mumbled something that no one could make out.

"Count me in, too." Olsen flopped backward on his bunk.

Paxton glanced about the room at everyone. "Ah, heck. Why don't we all get plastered?"

"Yeah," Carter scoffed, raising his head from his arms. "That's a good idea, seeing as we have a mission tonight."

Olsen's head bobbed up, his lips pursed in a moue of unhappiness. "Party-pooper," he threw down at Carter.

Everyone jumped when the barracks door opened. Hogan walked in, shirt still undone and jacket over one arm. Kinch came in behind him, shut the door and went straight to the table. Flinging a long leg over the bench, he sat down next to Lebeau, breathing a huge sigh of relief.

"The way he looked you over, Sir, I thought . . . well, I don't want to go into what I thought."

"Newkirk," Hogan called from the doorway to his quarters. "I could use some help getting these off."

Newkirk hopped down from his bunk and joined Hogan in the other room. Tossing his jacket and shirt on the topmost bunk, Hogan sat down with his right side against the edge of the desk. Newkirk switched the lamp on and angled it so the light fell upon Hogan shoulder, then grabbed a towel from the locker and took a pair of tweezers from his pocket. Hogan smiled up at him.

"You did great, oh master of disguises."

"Would have all gone to hell in a hand basket if you'd started sweating, guv'nor," Newkirk said, spreading the towel on the desk.

Hogan blew a long breath, suddenly limp from how close they had come to winding up dead. So much could have gone wrong. He laid a forearm on the desk to brace himself.

"This will smart a bit," Newkirk warned, raising the tweezers and putting a hand to the top of Hogan's shoulder.

Hogan jumped. His gaze, when it lifted to Newkirk's face, was slightly accusing.

"Sorry," Newkirk chuckled, feeling the last bit of tension drain away. "Nerves. Makes me hands cold every time."

A faint, crooked smile softened Hogan's expression. "S'okay. I was kind of nervous myself." Their eyes met and both chuckled.

"All right, then. Here we go." Newkirk brought the tweezers to Hogan's shoulder and teased at a particular spot. What looked like a flap of skin came loose under his probing. He took a firm grip on the edge with the tweezers, hesitated and looked into Hogan's eyes. "Fast or slow?" Before Hogan could even draw breath for an answer, Newkirk yanked on the flap, ripping a sizeable chunk of false skin from Hogan's shoulder, revealing the scar left by the bullet wound. Both the scar and the skin around it were tinged pink and shiny from spirit gum. Hogan glared up at Newkirk through watering eyes.

"Best to go fast," Newkirk said, an angelic smile gracing his face. He placed the small piece of fake skin on the towel and wiped the tweezers. When he turned back to Hogan, the angelic smile was as strong as ever. "Ready for the next?"

Hogan swiveled so that Newkirk could easily get at the fake skin covering the scar on his side. "Yeah." He looked up, arched an eyebrow. "Just remember that I have a very long memory."

Newkirk chuckled, clicked the tips of the tweezers together. "Right."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Klink downed his third shot of schnapps, set the empty glass down on the desk blotter. At least that was what he had intended to do. Either he had misjudged the distance or someone had moved his desk. The glass teetered on the very edge, much like the basketball had teetered on the hoop. Klink jerked forward to catch it, but was too late. The glass hit the floor between his feet and shattered into pieces. His office door immediately flew open and Schultz peeked inside, his round eyes traveling from the scattered shards to Klink's face.

"I will get one of the prisoners to clean the glass away, Herr Kommandant."

"Never mind," Klink blurted irritably, wanting no one around. Schultz paused on the threshold, puzzlement wrinkling his brow.

"But you might cut yourself," Schultz pointed out, indicating the glass that lay closest to Klink's feet.

Klink was suddenly exhausted. After facing death, a little glass was nothing. "Leave it, Schultz. I will be fine."

"Jawhol, Herr Kommandant," Schultz murmured, confused by his kommandant's mercurial mood. He saluted and quietly withdrew.

Klink folded his hands in his lap and let his chin drop to his chest. Doubt swirled in his mind, surprisingly overshadowing his relief at still being alive. The evidence - or lack of it- indicated that Hogan was not a saboteur cleverly hiding out at Stalag 13. Yet he was finding it extremely hard to dismiss the information he had collected in his journal.

What if Hogan really was the mastermind behind all of the sabotage? What if he had somehow found a way to conceal his wounds?

Klink snickered, chuckled, then burst out laughing until tears leaked from his eyes. _Conceal wounds! Not even Hogan could be such a magician as to pull off that feat!_

Lurching out of the chair, Klink grabbed the bottle of schnapps and and stuffed the cork back in the top. He had definitely had too much to drink.

* * *

_TBC . . . Thank you for reading!_


	32. Chapter 32

_My thanks goes as always to Marilyn Penner for her help and advice._

**Chapter 32**

* * *

Hogan slouched against the window frame in his quarters, arms loosely folded and brow drawn into a frown. The sun was sinking behind the tree line by slow degrees, the first stars just appearing far above. Hours remained until he and his men could sneak out of camp under cover of full darkness, which left him little do except watch the sun go down and think of everything that might go wrong.

He had thrown his original plan out for a simpler one, opting to use a couple of good arms and grenades to blow up the fuel barrels. The right timing, a lot of luck, and 'boom' - one made to order bull's eye for the bomber pilots.

Straight at 'em, cram it down their throats, simple.

_Right._

His men had accepted the change of plans without argument. His changing of the team's members, however, had been met with swift and impassioned objections. Despite his patience wearing thinner as the mission loomed closer, he had let them speak their minds, then firmly restated his decision. The calculating look that had quickly passed over Newkirk's face had not escaped his notice.

Newkirk was infamous for finding and using loopholes at his own discretion. Knowing that, Hogan had looked him right in the eye and laid down his final words on the matter. Anyone caught arbitrarily adding themselves to the team would receive a one-way ticket out of Stalag 13 courtesy of a court martial. The conniving light had faded from Newkirk's eyes, but Hogan had found no satisfaction in it.

Five men would make up the new team. Kinch and Braveheart would throw the grenades over the fence, since they had the best arms in terms of accuracy and distance. Benson and Maddux, his two best marksmen, filled the bill as insurance if it all went south and they ended up in a firefight. He was the fifth member, taking the role of sniper. If luck was on their side, everything would go off without a hitch, and tomorrow morning at roll call, they would all smile when Klink whined about those rotten Allies and their bombs.  
_  
_Hogan's thoughts were innterupted by the sound of footsteps moving toward him from the other end of the building. Schultz came to rest in his peripheral vision with a loud sigh and a disapproving expression.

"Colonel Hogan, it is verboten for the shutters to be open after roll call."

"Just taking in the view, Schultz," Hogan murmured, still watching the sun's descent. The stars were brighter now, the sky several shades darker. "No harm in that, is there?"

Schultz threw a quick glance at the sunset. "I suppose not. But only for a few minutes more. And then --" he smacked his palms together before Hogan's face. "Geschlossen."

Hogan suppressed a twinge of irritation. "Geschlossen. Got it."

Judging by the wary gaze that suddenly fixed upon his profile, his sudden obedience had surprised Schultz. After giving him a squint-eyed look loaded with doubt, Shultz shrugged. His ruddy features relaxed and tucking his thumbs in his great belt, he pivoted to admire the sunset.

"I can not blame you, Colonel, for wishing to watch. Sunsets are always most beautiful just before a rain."

A jolt of dismay shot through Hogan. His head whipped toward Schultz. "Your knee acting up again?"

"Ja. It is never wrong." Schultz bent down, cheeks puffing as his hand went to his left knee.

Hogan watched Schultz massage the offending joint, then looked back at the cloudless sky. Schultz's forecasting abilities had been accurate often enough that Hogan trusted them implicitly. If Schultz said it was going to rain, then it would.

"Tonight, you think?"

Schultz put a hand to the small of his back and straightened with a quiet groan. His chin lifted and he sniffed the air, nose wrinkling with the effort. "Before dawn."

"Terrific," Hogan muttered, no longer enjoying the spectacular display.

Rain meant low-lying clouds, which would make it even more difficult for the bomber pilots. They would have to drop below the cloud deck in order to sight their target, which made them easier marks for ground fire.

"You're sure?"

Schultz drew his shoulders back and looked down his nose, clearly affronted that the accuracy of his knee was being questioned. "My knee is --"

"Never wrong," Hogan recited along with him. "Sorry. Don't know what came over me."

Schultz leaned closer, waggled a school-marmish finger. "By dawn," he intoned.

Hogan donned an appropriately somber face, hoping it would soothe the last of Schultz's injured feelings. "Dawn. Gotcha."

Satisfied he was being taken seriously, Schultz nodded once and leaned back again. He started to turn away, then turned back. Their gazes locked and Schultz's palms came together before Hogan's face with a loud slap. It was enough to break a few more threads of Hogan's already strained patience. Taking a deep, calming breath, he straightened away from the window frame.

"Yeah, yeah." Hogan pulled the shutters closed and flipped the latch. On the other side of the wall, Schultz's heavy tread moved on.

A light rap of knuckles on wood sounded behind him and Hogan turned. Kinch stepped through the doorway, closed the door behind him and put his back to it, insuring their privacy. Hogan arched an eyebrow, hoping Kinch's grim expression was not due to more bad news.

"You heard the report from station K.N.E.E.?"

Kinch nodded. "We're going to get wet."

"Maybe." Hogan's lips twitched, but the smile refused to be born. "Maybe not. There's always a first time for our friendly Kraut forecaster to be wrong."

Kinch's eyebrow went up. "Schultz, yeah. His knee?" He shook his head. "Uh-uh. Even Newkirk won't bet against it."

Hogan sighed. Raking a hand over his hair, he glanced past Kinch's shoulder, picturing the men on the other side of the door. "It's pretty quiet out there. Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter still sulking?"

Amusement sparked in Kinch's eyes. "There's unrest amongst the natives tonight."

"They know the rules. The best men for the job and the minimum number needed to get it done."

Kinch's expression dissolved into a frown. His mouth opened, closed, and then he spoke his mind, despite the severe look Hogan turned on him.

"They're used to backing you up. They don't understand why this time is any different."

Hogan closed his eyes and bowed his head, thumb and forefinger coming to rest above the bridge of his nose. His nerves were jangling and his confidence was teetering. He wanted his men with him, and he wanted them as far away from him as possible. Dropping his hand, he brought his head up and let Kinch get a good look at how close to the edge he felt.

"The fewer men we take, Kinch, the fewer die if I can't . . . If I freeze up again . . ." His throat closed up under the storm of emotion. He shook his head, leaving his worst fears unspoken.

Kinch flinched, as if he had just taken a hard punch to the stomach. Then his dark eyes cleared and his expression hardened, steel girding his tone.

"Superior officer or not, if I thought you'd lost your nerve, I'd say so, straight up. There is absolutely no way I'd agree to let you go on this mission."

Hogan felt his jaw tighten. "Your faith in me is flattering, but I hope it doesn't get you killed."

Kinch's voice remained strong and confident. "It's been a long two days and all this waiting around is getting the better of your nerves. You'll be fine once we leave."

Hogan's jaw clenched even tighter.

Kinch cocked his head, his whole demeanor softening. "Colonel . . . we don't follow you because we _have_ to. We follow you because we _believe_ in you."

Hogan swallowed, overcome by a flood of warmth. The knot in his chest loosened and he sucked in a breath, feeling like he could breathe again. Squashing the crippling self-doubt into a box, he blew it a Bronx cheer, and then slammed the lid on it for good measure. He reached out, gripped the top of Kinch's shoulder.

"And you say I'm the one with the silver tongue."

Kinch chuckled.

"I'm going below," Hogan said, nodding to the door. "Do me a favor and keep the tribe here until it's time to change for the mission."

"Now that qualifies as hazardous duty," Kinch shot back, grinning wide.

* * *

_TBC . . . ._

_Thank you for reading. Please take a moment to review. _


	33. Chapter 33

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter 33**

Hogan prepared for the mission, something he had done hundreds of times before. He changed clothes; taking time to neatly hang his uniform in his locker, then went to one of the cupboards and pulled out a tin of grease. Looking into the mirror hung on his locker door, he carefully smeared the grease over his face. The butterflies in his stomach gradually stopped their fluttering. Face sufficiently darkened, he capped the grease and put it on the table for the others to use.

He took his gloves out, considered them a moment, then put them back. It was a fairly warm night. He retrieved the grease, blackened the back of his hands, then recapped the tin.

He reached for the gun and holster next, movements slower than normal. Carefully lifting them from the hook in his locker, he carried them to the table and sat. He was back on his feet a moment later, returning to his locker for several boxes of shells.

Loading the gun took several minutes. He let memory and training take over, carefully keeping his mind blank as he chambered each round. To his relief, his hands did not shake and the butterflies stayed quiet. The relief was tempered, though. Loading a weapon was entirely different from shooting it.

He paused, turning the handgun over in his hands, examining every inch from sight to grip and back, then holstered it and buckled the belt on.

Keeping his mind resolutely focused upon the task at hand, Hogan got his rifle and carried it back to the table. The loading process was repeated, the rifle double-checked and then placed upon the table. Several boxes of ammunition went into his pockets and after a moment's thought, he gathered several more boxes and set them on the table, too.

He eyed the items on the table, then spun on his heel and sat on the bench in front of his locker. The butterflies had changed to heavy, lead shot in the pit of his stomach. The tension was creeping back, gripping muscles in his neck, shoulders and arms. His hands clenched into fists on his thighs.

Drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out again, he relaxed the fingers of one hand and rubbed it over his face, grappling for something else to occupy his mind. Inspiration struck and he yanked the locker door open again, reached inside and brought out a small wood box. Memories flying through his mind like leaves on the wind, he gently placed the box on his lap, raised the lid and took out a single, precious item.

The photo was old, one corner slightly dog-eared. Two people stood at the center, the United States flag flying proudly from a flagpole in the background. It had been a sunny day, beautiful weather. But it could have been twenty degrees and blowing a blizzard and he would not have cared.

His hand rested upon his youngest brother's shoulder. Chris was looking up at him rather than at their mother's camera, blatant adoration for his eldest brother on his face. Hogan was smiling down at him, returning every bit of the love being directed at him from a pair of emerald green eyes. Moments after the camera had captured the moment, the rest of the Hogan family had swarmed them and the celebration marking his gradation from West Point had got off to a rousing start.

Surrounded by his family's love, flush with accomplishment and a deep sense of duty to his country, he had believed nothing was impossible.

Hogan stared at the photo, trying to recapture those feelings, needing them now.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan was standing before the wall map when Kinch entered the room at a fast clip, already stripping off his jacket. Acknowledging his CO's nod with a smile, Kinch tossed his jacket onto the bench and opened his locker. The group that had piled into the room after him was large. Benson, Maddux and Braveheart went directly to their lockers to change, while the rest of the men scattered about the room, searching for places to sit or stand. With a fond shake of his head, Hogan went back to studying the map. Once he had the best route to the tower memorized, he turned his attention to the next item on his mental list.

"Benson. Maddux."

The two men paused, turned from their lockers. Hogan pointed to the boxes of ammunition he had laid out earlier.

"Extra ammo. Each of you take a box."

Maddux's eyebrows shot up. "On top of what we usually carry?"

Benson scowled, reached around his locker's open door and punched Maddux's bicep. Maddux jumped, narrowed his eyes at Benson, but tossed out a belated, "Sir?" to Hogan.

Hogan's eyes glinted. "The extra weight going to bother you?"

Maddux shook his head. "No. Sir."

"Glad to hear it." Hogan peered between Broughton and Jones to the other side of the room. Kinch and Braveheart were already changed and just pulling their boots on. Kinch stomped his foot home in its boot, then did the same with the left.

"We didn't wear your arm out this afternoon, did we Kinch?"

Kinch looked up, flashed a grin. "Not a chance."

Hogan's gaze shifted to Braveheart, who was wrapping his laces around the top of his boot, face set in concentration.

"How about you, Braveheart? You good to go?"

"All set in a second, Colonel." Braveheart tied off the laces in a tight bow, then gave them an experimental tug. Tripping over a loose lace could have deadly consequences in their line of work.

Hogan brought up an important detail that had occurred to him after leaving his quarters. "Use grease tonight, fellas. Soot will wash off if Schultz's forecast comes true."

"Kinch," Carter called. He waited until his fellow sergeant looked his way, then tossed a small tin. Kinch snatched it out of the air, his features crinkling into a mock scowl.

"Funny, Carter." Laughter broke out as he flipped the can of grease to Braveheart.

Hogan caught himself smiling. Leave it to his men.

Benson looked for a particular face in the crowd and was surprised and somewhat disappointed when he did not find it. Brushing past Maddux, he reached out and snagged Broughton by the sleeve.

"Where's Tivoli?"

Broughton shrugged. "Flat on his back in Barracks Nine. Said to tell you 'good luck', and that he wasn't coming down because he'd be tempted to sneak out behind you."

Benson balled his hands on his hips. "You mean that crazy Italian is actually showing some sense for once?"

"Hey, miracles do happen!" Olsen laughed, arms spread wide, palms up.

_Amen to that_, Hogan thought, knowing Tivoli's irritating habit of disobeying orders.

LeBeau shouldered between Lyons and Olsen and came to stand before him. "_Colonel_. You are certain that you won't change your mind?"

Carter stepped toward them, eagerness and hope brightening his expression. "There's still time for us to get changed."

"Thanks, fellas, but you're staying here," Hogan said firmly, but not without compassion for their feelings. He slid an arm around LeBeau's shoulders, saying what they all – including he - needed to hear.

"We'll be fine."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan and his men traveled steadily, making good time despite the rough ground, dense vegetation and constant threat of patrols. Halfway to their target, a distant grumble of thunder brought them to a standstill.

Hogan jogged to a large break in the trees and looked up. A scowl settled over his face.

"Schultz's knee needs fine-tuning."

Thunderheads were building on the horizon, towering masses that flashed with sporadic lightning. Hogan suddenly realized how humid it had gotten, how ominously still the air had grown ahead of the storm front.

Benson eyed the ugly clouds with trepidation, remembering a cousin who had died after being struck by lightning.

"That's it. No more strudel for Schultz."

Hogan sighed, reflexively gripped the rifle's strap when it shifted lower on his shoulder. Wispy ribbons of clouds, forerunners of the storm, stretched across the quarter moon like gray, skeletal fingers. His gaze snapped back to the horizon when the entire length of the cloudbank flashed, briefly bathing everything with flickering, unearthly light.

Kinch quietly counted off seconds until a low rumble of thunder broke the silence. Uneasy glances passed around the group. The lightning would expose their movements as they broke cover to throw their grenades over the fence. But it was too late to cancel the mission. The squadron was already on its way.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"I bloody hate being left behind on these sorts of missions," Newkirk growled around his cigarette. Plucking it from his lips, he threw it to the floor and stamped it out in the dirt beneath his heel. The room was hazy with smoke, testament to the number of cigarettes he had smoked so far. "Absobloomin'lutely hate it. Would much rather be in the thick of it."

"Handling dynamite is easier than this." Carter drummed his fingers on the table, missing the evil eye Paxton was giving him from the other side of the table.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, LeBeau studied the ground at his feet. "I wish Colonel Hogan would have changed his mind and let us go along."

O'Malley stopped pacing around the table, glanced between Carter's bowed head and LeBeau's stony expression. "Aye, save your breath, you two. Your case was dismissed and the judge has left the building."

Carter's drumming sped up, gaining volume. Paxton's hand shot out and slammed down on his fingers, flattening them on the table.

"Thank you!" Jones sighed with feeling from near the door. "Much more of that and I would have run screaming into the night."

_Sorry_, Carter mouthed.

"There's a storm coming," Olsen quietly announced, returning from a trip to the barracks. "It looks like a big one. Fourth of July big."

Concern puckered Paxton's brow. "How soon until it hits?"

Olsen plopped onto a chair and leaned it back onto two legs. "Soon."

"Marvelous," Newkirk grumbled, glowering at Olsen. "What a harbinger of good news you are!"

"Harbinger?" Jones stared at Newkirk. "What the heck is that? Some kind of bird?"

Carter grinned, surprised yet again by his friend's choice of words. "Where'd you learn a word like that?"

Newkirk's expression turned smug.

"It's a messenger, Jones," Lyons explained in a bored tone. "As in 'don't shoot the messenger' even though you _really_ feel like it."

Jones turned back to Newkirk, his tone dripping with disgust. "Why didn't you just—"

"Hey!" Wild-eyed, O'Malley turned in place, checking everyone present. "If we're all down here, who's keeping watch in our barracks?"

"Oh, crap!" Olsen yelped, only then remembering he had drawn guard duty for the night. He jumped out of the chair so fast he stumbled over his feet. Catching his balance, he shoved Broughton and Jones out of the way and took off at a dead run for Barracks Two.

"Give a yell if Klink wakes up and decides to head our way!" Newkirk called after him.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

**  
**By the time Hogan and his men reached the tower, the storm front had completely blacked out the stars and quarter moon. Lightning slashed the sky; the air trembled with deep, rolling peals of thunder. A high wind pummeled the trees, shaking them to their roots and whipping their leaves into a frenzy. The temperature was dropping quickly, the scent of rain strong on the wind. The full fury of the storm would soon be upon them.

Hogan motioned the group to join him at the very edge of the trees, where they had an unobstructed view of the tower and outlying defenses. They crouched low to the ground, blending into the shadows, blanking their minds to the danger of lightning strikes.

Hogan got Kinch's attention and tapped his watch. Unless the storm had proved too much for them, the bombers were due to arrive within fifteen minutes.

Kinch looked his CO in the eye. Hogan stared back, expression tight and controlled, eyes hard and glittering with reflected lightning. A second ticked off, the dark eyes softened, crinkling at the corners, and a twitch of Hogan's lips signaled it was okay. _He _was okay.

Hogan patted Kinch on the chest, a silent 'good luck', then pivoted and within moments, was lost in the darkness. He would find a position nearby, one that offered a better angle on all four guard towers.

Benson and Maddux drew their weapons and took their positions. Braveheart and Kinch pulled grenades from the pouches hanging from their belts. Kinch watched the two silhouettes walking the fence line, his free hand at shoulder height, ready to give the signal. Braveheart gathered himself, grenade cradled carefully in one hand.

The silhouettes made another slow pass along the fence from corners to midpoint, paused, turned and began to retrace their steps.

The wind rose to a roar, the full intensity of the storm unleashing upon them. Lightning flared and the sky opened as thunder crashed directly overhead. Wind-driven sheets of rain streamed from the sky, drenching everything within seconds.

Kinch blinked away the after-image of the bolt. The guards' silhouettes were bent against the onslaught of wind and rain, but still doggedly moving along the fence. Approximately five feet separated them. Then ten. Eyes squinted against the rain's sting, Kinch slashed his hand downward.

Braveheart and Kinch left the woods, moving fast and low, partially concealed by wildly whipping tall grass and heavy rain. When they were close enough, they jerked the firing pins, stood and threw the grenades with all their might. The explosives arced through the rain, on a path to clear the fence and hit the fuel barrels on the other side. Kinch and Braveheart reversed, caught their balance on the wet ground, and raced back to the trees.

A strong gust caught the grenades and batted them aside. They hit the ground just short of the fence and exploded.

The shockwave knocked the guards off their feet. They rolled and tumbled across the grass, their weapons flying from their hands. Shouts went up inside the perimeter fence, and the lights in the four guard towers switched on. Rifle shots rang out in quick succession, and one by one, the searchlights blew up in showers of glass and sparks.

Benson peered through the gray curtain of water. The guards outside the fence had regained their feet and were searching for their guns. Gritting his teeth at shooting an unarmed man, he took one down, while Maddux took care of the other.

Lightning sizzled across the sky, split and arced to earth. A nearby tree split down the middle with a deafening boom of thunder, the ground shuddering from the force of the strike. Benson and Maddux ducked, letting out dual yelps of alarm. Quickly shaking off their fright, ears ringing from the blast, they focused upon laying down cover fire for Kinch and Braveheart.

Braveheart and Kinch scrambled to their feet, arming themselves with more grenades.

Another bolt cut a jagged path overheard. A guard in one of the towers spotted them in the flash of light, whipped his rifle up to his shoulder and took aim. A rifle shot split the air, and the guard toppled from the tower, dead from a bullet to the heart. The rifle spoke again and again, picking off Germans at every opportunity.

Kinch and Braveheart sprinted toward the fence, breathing hard and eyes slitted against the pounding rain. Heaving the grenades into the teeth of the wind, they reversed course and ran for cover. The grenades sailed cleanly over the fence this time, splashed down in the mud next to the fuel barrels.

Kinch and Braveheart dove headlong into the trees, hit the ground and wrapped their arms about their heads. Benson and Maddux threw themselves down, buried their faces and covered their ears.

The explosion tossed the barrels skyward in gouts of flaming fuel and shrapnel, blasting the nearby fence into splintered bits of wood and tangled wire.

Kinch raised his head from his arms, bolted to his feet and tugged Braveheart off the ground. Maddux and Benson stumbled over, wide-eyed and splotched with mud and leaves.

More rifle shots cracked through the air. They whirled and looked back at the destruction. Lightning and the fire's glow revealed the crumpled bodies of two Germans lying between them and the burning camp.

A fierce grin spread across Maddux's face. "That's our guardian angel!"

"We're all going to be angels if we don't get the hell out of here!" Benson shouted above the howling wind and rain.

They turned and ran; desperate to get a safe distance from the 'bulls-eye' they had created for the bombers that were even now swooping out of the sky.

The telltale high-pitched whistle of falling bombs pierced the storm's din. The surviving Germans yelled and scattered, running for their lives.

The ground rocked under the bombs' impact, dirt blasting into the air. The tower blew apart, the framework bending and twisting into mangled ribbons of steel. The outlying buildings disintegrated, their remnants bursting into flame that not even the downpour could immediately quench. The screams of dying men filled the air, then faded, lost under the crackle of fire and booming thunder.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

**  
**Whipping the rifle back toward what was left of the fenced enclosure, Hogan double-checked that no one else was going after his men. Through the heavy rain, he saw a few survivors climbing out of the wreckage, but they looked in no shape to do anything. As he watched, they collapsed to the ground and did not get up again. He swung the rifle toward the craters that marked where the tower had stood. Twisted metal and slag were all that remained, completely unsalvageable.

Thumbing the rifle's safety on, Hogan slid his arm through the strap and with a shrug and twist of his upper body, slung the weapon onto his back. He threw another squinted glance at the ruins left by the bombers, then jogged deeper into the woods to rejoin his men, lightning and flickering flames showing the way.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"You feel that?" Carter's eyes were wide with hope, his body stiff with tension. "That had to be it, right?"

"Could have been more thunder," Paxton murmured, brushing dirt from his shoulders. "A strike nearby."

Newkirk, Olsen and LeBeau's eyes were locked on the dirt sifting down from the tunnel's ceiling, brought on by what they hoped was the faint vibration of a distant explosion. A grin slowly spread across Newkirk's face. "My bets are on our mates."

Carter beamed. "Mine, too."

LeBeau gave him a sideways glance, his eyes alight with amusement. "If anyone knows explosions, it would be you."

O'Malley sat down hard at the table, dropped his forehead into his palm, and said a few silent prayers. The tower was likely gone. He just hoped none of their friends were, too.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Herr Kommandant?" Schultz's call and light tap to Klink's shoulder got no response. The loud, buzzing snores went on without pause, Klink's blanket stayed pulled to his chin. Schultz bit his lip, hesitantly reached out, and before he could change his mind, shook Klink hard by the shoulder.

"Herr Kommandant?"

Klink's snores broke off with a snuffle-snort and a faint crease furrowed his brow. "Heil Hitler," he murmured, flailing his right hand off the bed in what Schultz assumed was a salute.

Schultz rolled his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he leaned down right next to Klink's ear and bellowed, "HERR KOMMANDANT KLINK!"

"WHAT?!" Klink yelped, snapping upright and smacking foreheads with Schultz.

Both men reeled, clamped hands to their ringing heads. Uncrossing his eyes, Klink glared up at two Schultzes from beneath the hand still clutched to his forehead. "What do want, Schultz?!"

"Herr Kommandant," Schultz gulped, wishing the room would stop spinning. "There has been an explosion."

Klink balled his fists in his lap, voice lowering to a growl. "It's only the storm."

Schultz gulped again, this time in relief, when the three Klinks merged into one. "Nein, Herr Kommandant. It was definitely an explosion." He turned aside, unclasped one hand from his head and pointed to the window. Gaze gone flinty hard, lips pressed tightly together, Klink threw his legs over the side of the bed and stomped to the window, not bothering with slippers or robe. He glanced outside, started to look back at Schultz to give him a piece of his mind, then did a double take out the window.

An undulating orange glow lit the horizon, overcast by billows of smoke that were visible in each flash of lightning. Klink racked his aching head for what lay in that direction, but could not come up with anything. That did not mean that nothing was there, since something obviously was, because it was on fire.

Klink's gaze cut to Barracks Two. It was dark, as it should be at this time of night. But he wondered if he went there now, would he find Hogan asleep in his quarters?

Or gone?

* * *

_TBC. Thank you for reading. Please take a moment to review. _


	34. Chapter 34

_Thank you for your help, Marilyn!_

* * *

**Chapter 34**

Kinch, Benson, Braveheart and Maddux picked themselves off the ground. Shaken, covered from head to toe in filth, they turned and looked back the way they had come. Through the trees, they could see a huge fire burning, could even feel a bit of its heat despite the falling rain.

Smiles passed between them.

They had done it. The tower was gone.

"Thank God," Kinch breathed, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees. Benson slapped him on the back, raising tiny geysers of muddy water from the drenched sweater.

Exhultant, Maddux thrust his fists into the air and danced a jig.

Braveheart frowned and turned in place, hands on hips. Kinch straightened quickly, raked the surrounding trees with a hard stare. Maddux quit his one-man party and went stock-still. Benson took a few steps back the way they had come, trying to hear and see through the storm.

They were still a man short.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Romie peered through the rain, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders. She had been watching the storm with Josef from the porch when an orange light had appeared above the tree line. The glow was fading quickly, disappearing altogether in each flash of lightning.

She looked up at Josef.

"What could it be?"

He shook his head, wondering the same thing. There had been talk – whispers, really, for no one talked openly about much these days – of something being built in the woods. Whether rumor or truth, it was best left to the younger men of the Resistance - like Robert - to find out. And destroy it, if need be.

_And perhaps_, Josef thought, watching the glow disappear behind the trees, _that's exactly what they have done._

He tapped his pipe on the porch railing to empty it of ash, then tucked it into his trouser pocket and dropped an arm about Romie's shoulders. She snuggled against him, wrapping an arm about his waist.

The wind suddenly changed direction, gusting under the eaves and spraying them with fat raindrops. A startled yip sounded near their feet. Mozart backed away from the railing, a sneeze bouncing his front paws off the porch's planked floor. Seeing he had their attention, he wriggle-danced backward toward the house, madly wagging his tail and huffing another sneeze for good measure. Romie bit back a giggle, smoothed her face into a sober expression and looked up at Josef.

"We are being told to get out of the rain."

The sky suddenly lit up again, the flash of lightning so bright Josef and Romie were temporarily blinded. A loud crack of thunder rattled the windows in their frames. Mozart whined and pawed the top of Josef's boot.

Josef rubbed at his eyes. "A very good idea, Mutter."

Another gust of wind-driven rain prickled their faces. Mozart yipped, spun and hit the door hard with both front paws, brown eyes rolling back at them in a pitiful plea. Josef chuckled and shielding Romie from the rain, obligingly opened the door. Mozart lunged inside and raced through the house to the bedroom. Josef and Romie followed at a more sedate pace, content to ride out the storm in the warmth of their bed.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Maybe we should go look for him!" Benson yelled into Kinch's ear, trying to be heard over the wind, rain and thunder.

Kinch pulled back, looked him in the eye and forcefully shook his head. They would wait a little longer.

Maddux leaned in close from Kinch's other side. "Let me go!"

Kinch shook his head again, glaring from one to the other.

Braveheart turned toward them, lost his footing and madly pin-wheeled his arms to catch his balance. Kinch and Benson grabbed him by the arms, saving him from a bad fall. They waited until he carefully set his feet, then let go. Braveheart nodded once to show his thanks, whatever he had been about to say forgotten.

Kinch looked around and was surprised to see the lightning reflecting off large puddles. He took a few steps, and was dismayed to feel the soggy ground give way beneath his boots. The soft, humus-rich soil was already waterlogged and quickly turning into a quagmire. Getting back to camp would prove an adventure all its own.

Maddux tensed as a tiny light winked on and off in the darkness to his left. Grinning ear to ear, he shot a hand out, grabbed a handful of Kinch's soaked sleeve and yanked.

Kinch turned, just in time to see the light wink on and off. Keeping his eyes on the spot, he quickly wrestled his flashlight from his jacket pocket, put his thumb to the button and waited for the signal to repeat. Seconds ticked by and then the flashes began again, further to their left.

Two flashes. Long pause. One flash.

Kinch signaled back, four quick flashes. Hogan soon jogged out of the shadows, expression stormier than the weather. He assessed them in a sweeping glance, then curtly motioned them to follow.

_We're leaving!_

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"Herr Kommandant?"

The question was hesitantly voiced, but Klink flinched anyway. He had forgotten he was not alone. With a last searching look at Barracks Two, he left the window, grabbed his robe from the foot of his bed and slid his feet into his slippers. The room was cold and he felt silly speaking with Schultz while standing about in his nightshirt and bare feet.

"Is something wrong, Herr Kommandant?"

Klink took his time belting and tying the robe, thinking things through. Was something wrong? Or was he letting his imagination get the best of him again? Should he check on Hogan? Or should he go back to bed and give up his suspicions once and for all that Stalag 13 housed a clever saboteur?

Schultz gently scuffed his boot across the floor, hoping the noise would remind Klink – again – of his presence.

"Nothing's wrong," Klink blurted, so suddenly that Schultz rocked back on his heels. Deciding he wanted a stiff drink, Klink shuffled from his bedroom, vaguely aware of a Schultz-sized shadow following. Thunder rolled far beyond the hills, tapering off to a series of deep, tympanic rumbles that vibrated the floor under their feet. Klink opened the liquor cabinet's double doors, eyed the bottles inside and chose one at random. Plucking a glass from the tray resting upon the cabinet, he glanced back at Schultz.

"Nothing, other than I am wide awake in the middle of the night, with a headache and a dummkoff for company."

"Perhaps you would like another dummkoff, instead?" Schultz's lips pursed and his eyes lifted to the ceiling. "I could get Langenscheidt. He is just finishing his check of --"

"That won't be necessary," Klink cut in, sighing heavily. He gave the empty ice bucket a wistful glance, wishing it held ice for his drink. And his head. He waved Schultz toward the door, anxious to bring their conversation to a close.

"Gute Nacht, Schultz!"

Once he was alone, Klink drained the glass in one draught, turned off the lights and returned to his bed.

He would find out in the morning what the Resistance had destroyed this time, and if he still had a Senior P.O.W. or not.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan glanced over his shoulder, pivoted and hurried back to his men. Benson was sitting on the ground, teeth bared in pain. Crouching beside Kinch, Hogan caught his attention and lifted a palm in a 'what's wrong?' gesture. Maddux answered by stabbing a finger toward Benson's right knee.

Kinch briefly locked eyes with Benson, then clasped the leg above and below the knee and gently tried bending it. Benson jerked backward, biting down hard on his lower lip. Maddux dropped a knee to the muddy ground, and rested a hand on Benson's shoulder. Braveheart stood a few feet away, a palm upon the butt of his gun and his eyes on the surrounding woods, watching for trouble.

Kinch lowered Benson's leg to the ground, sat back on his heels and shook his head. Hogan angled an ear toward him. Kinch cupped his hands about it, so that his voice would not carry far.

"He must have pulled something yanking his boot out of the mud!"

Benson looked up at Hogan, grimacing as another spasm of pain shot through his knee. His 'sorry, sir!' was lost in a crack of thunder, but Hogan easily read his lips. He reached past Maddux and scrubbed his knuckles over Benson's drenched hair, bringing a brief, shaky smile to the injured man's face.

Hogan stood and took a quick look around, his thoughts racing at the danger they were in. The storm showed no signs of weakening, instead seemed determined to throw as much rain, thunder and lightning at them as possible. They were cold and soaked to the skin, exhausted from slogging through mud, sliding down hills, dodging windblown branches and climbing over fallen trees. And then there were the patrols. Bad weather would not keep them from their routes.

He glanced up, squinting his eyes against the rain and silently cursed the miserable conditions. They had survived the mission. Now they had to survive the trip back.

Wincing as another bolt of lightning threw spots across his vision, he reached down and fisted a hand in the shoulder of Kinch's jacket, urging him to his feet. They moved a short distance away, and then Hogan turned and cupped a hand to Kinch's ear.

"I'll go find branches for splints!"

Kinch reversed their positions. "Let me," he yelled back, flinching involuntarily as a cannon-like boom of thunder sounded.

Hogan jerked back a step, his eyes white-ringed with fear. Shaking his head, he mouthed _'NO!'_, shoved a finger against Kinch's chest, then jabbed it at the ground, mouthing, _'Stay here!'_ The gestures were repeated to include Braveheart, Benson and Maddux.

The reaction puzzled Kinch. Then the similarities between their present situation and the one that led to Marta's death dawned upon him. He nodded to show he understood and saw relief flood his CO's face. If they stayed put, then Hogan could use his weapon in the woods without fear of shooting one of them by mistake.

Kinch patted Hogan on the shoulder, offering reassurance as best he could, wondering if his CO would ever truly get past killing Marta. Hogan took the rifle from his back and put it into Kinch's hands, then turned and walked away. Kinch went back to the others and knelt beside Benson. He placed the rifle across Benson's legs to keep it out of the mud, and with both hands free again, pantomimed Hogan's intentions and their orders. A mulish expression pinched Maddux's face, but he bobbed his head once to show he would obey. He stayed where he was, his hand still upon Benson's shoulder. Braveheart knelt in the mud behind Benson and gently tugged on his shoulders, urging him to lean back. Benson did not have to be asked twice. He sank back against Braveheart's chest, eyes closing as another throb of pain went through his knee.

Hogan carefully picked his way through the trees, lightning flickering overhead. His eyes burned from the constant barrage of light and every nerve thrummed with tension. Jaw clenched tight, he hunted for branches suitable for bracing Benson's leg and finally located a couple of straight, sturdy ones. Tucking them under his left arm, he turned and retraced his path, anxious to get back to his men.

He was skirting a thick clump of brambles when a rabbit broke cover nearly at his feet, startling him badly. His hand jerked to the butt of his gun, and then he blew out a deep breath, and dropped his hand to his side. Several more deep breaths and muttered curses later, he moved on, keeping a lookout for patrols.

He had his men in sight when a bolt streaked across the sky, illuminating everything in bright light, reflecting off every wet surface.

Horror sluiced down his spine in an icy torrent. Figures were moving amid the trees behind his men, their helmets and rifles glistening in the rain.

* * *

_TBC soon. Thank you for reading. Please take another moment to review. _


	35. Chapter 35

_Big thanks to Marilyn for looking this over so many times she must be reading it in her sleep. And thank you, everyone, for your reviews. _

* * *

**Chapter 35**

Hogan carefully took the branches from under his arm, lowered them to the ground and slowly slid his gun from its holster. He held the weapon low, keeping the barrel pointed toward the ground. His heart was hammering against his ribs, his breath coming short and fast. Eyes locked on the Germans slipping in and out of view amid the trees, he worked to slow his breathing, drawing in deep breaths through his nose and blowing them out again through his mouth.

His men's black clothes were muddy, spotted with leaves and small twigs. Benson was literally coated with mud from his fall. All four were either sitting or crouching, well below the Germans' sightlines and concealed by a dense, four-foot wall of brush. The six-man patrol was slowly moving parallel to their position from left to right and had nearly passed by them. If his men did not move . . . if they made no noise loud enough to be heard over the rain . . . they might not be noticed.

Hogan's Adam's apple jerked in a convulsive swallow, his nostrils flaring on another deep breath, a shudder racking his body.

_Don't move, don't move, don't move, don't, don't, don't! _

Thunder rumbled in the distance; trailing off until it was lost in the rain's steady drumming. The patrol stopped. So did Hogan's breathing.

Another bolt danced across the sky, casting a flickering blanket of light over everything. For several seconds, Hogan's men were clearly visible against the brush. He caught a glimpse of his rifle lying across Benson's legs and his jaw clenched, his teeth creaking from the pressure. If it all went to pieces, Kinch would need time to either draw his pistol or grab up the rifle.

Hogan licked his lips, blinking hard see to through the spots fading from his vision.

If it all went to pieces, his men were literally sitting ducks.

The patrol started forward again. They were past Hogan's men now, but still far too close. His gaze darted back and forth between the two groups.

_Don't move, fellas. Don't make a sound. Just a little longer and we may all get out of this alive._

Kinch's head turned in Hogan's direction. His face was not visible, but Hogan could guess his thoughts, knew he was wondering what was taking his CO so long to return. Kinch's head bowed toward Benson, then turned back in Hogan's direction. Hogan twitched, his heart racing, nerves afire with adrenaline and dread.

_Don't stand up, Kinch! Stay down! Stay down!_

The patrol was still visible to Hogan's right and for some reason, had stopped again. He did a fast count, wanting to be sure he had not lost track of any of the Germans. His stomach lurched when he saw only five. And then the sixth moved out from behind the tree that had blocked him from Hogan's view.

Hogan released another deep breath and without conscious thought, brought his gun up and shifted his stance, bracing his feet securely.

The steady rain abruptly slackened to a drizzle. The wind had laid and the interval between bursts of lightning had lengthened. The storm was finally moving on.

Hogan's eyes tracked the patrol as it started moving again. Just a little farther and it would be out of sight.

Maddux's explosively loud sneeze shattered the quiet. The patrol immediately swung about and Hogan's instinct to protect his men instantly overrode his fears. Lightning flashed in the distance, the glow weaker, but still bright enough to throw his men into stark relief. He lined up his first shot, shouting a warning to them.

"DOWN!"

Braveheart wrapped his arms around Benson and dragged him sideways to the ground, tumbling Hogan's rifle off Benson's legs. Kinch and Maddux dropped, scrambling to arm themselves. The Germans ducked for cover, their shouts mingling with a rumble of thunder.

Hogan's trigger finger squeezed, his gun jumping in his hand as the bullet sped from the chamber. One of the Germans jerked and fell with a choked cry of pain.

Sidestepping, Hogan brought another German into his sights, his focus unwavering. He could not take out the entire patrol. But he could buy his men time.

His second bullet found its mark. The German collapsed behind a clump of brush, dead before he hit the ground.

Kinch pulled his gun, rolled and twisted along the ground, trying to line up a shot. Maddux writhed and cursed, furiously scrubbing muddy water from his eyes. A helmeted figure leaned out from behind a tree, rifle at his shoulder, ready to shoot.

Hogan shifted his stance and aim, ignoring the two Germans swinging their rifles in his direction. He fired again, and the man about to shoot Kinch crashed to the ground.

Kinch jerked to a sitting position, snapped his gun up and pulled the trigger, killing one of the two Germans who had Hogan in their sights. Blinking furiously, Maddux rolled to a knee and fired at the blurred shape of the other, shouted an oath when his shot went wide. Braveheart, one hand braced upon Benson's shoulder to keep him down, fired at the same moment as Kinch. The remaining two Germans tumbled to the ground and did not move.

Breathing hard, Hogan glimpsed a dark figure coming at him from his left. He pivoted toward it without hesitation, vision tunneling on his target, gun extended, finger tight on the trigger . . .

"WHOA!" Tivoli threw his hands into the air and slid to a stop, face stark with fear at being confronted by the business end of Hogan's gun.

Hogan cursed, jerking his aim toward the sky without firing. Tivoli sagged in relief and dropped his hands. Taking a shaky breath, he holstered his gun and met Hogan's hard stare, a sheepish smile crossing his grease-darkened face.

"What a surprise, running into you guys out here."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"You all right, Benson?"

"Hey, you still with us?"

Braveheart and Maddux took Benson by the arms and carefully lifted him into a sitting position. Benson grinned up at them; leaves stuck in his hair and mud and rain dribbling down his face.

"Still breathing and that's what matters."

Maddux thumped a fist on Benson's shoulder. "Attaboy."

Shaking his head in mock disapproval, Braveheart plucked a crushed leaf from Benson's hair. "You are truly a mess, my friend."

Benson huffed a weak chuckle, reached up and wiped a glob of mud off the end of his nose.

Seeing the three of them were doing okay, Kinch pushed to his feet and walked over to Hogan and Tivoli, who were locked in a silent standoff. Tivoli, knowing he was in trouble for sneaking out of camp against orders, wisely kept his mouth buttoned. Stone-faced and gun still in hand, Hogan stared daggers at the Italian, more than likely not trusting himself to speak. Kinch gave a tight nod to Tivoli, then focused his attention upon Hogan. His CO showed no sign of injury, but Kinch detected a slight trembling.

"You all right, sir?"

The question broke the standoff. Hogan's gaze cut toward Kinch and he nodded once, a hard jerk of his head.

"The others?"

Kinch checked over his shoulder to see if all was still well, and then looked back at Hogan. "They're fine."

"Then let's get the hell out of here," Hogan said, leveling another hard glare at Tivoli. "The shooting might ha --"

Without warning, Hogan side-armed Kinch out of the way, whipped his gun up and fired twice. The German's knees buckled and he slid down the tree to the ground, a stunned look on his face. He pitched forward, dead for certain this time.

Braveheart, Benson and Maddux stared at the dead man in shock.

"Tivoli," Hogan rasped, offering Kinch a hand up. "Check the other bodies."

"Sir," Tivoli acknowledged. Drawing his weapon, he jogged past the man Hogan had just shot. Coming to the first of the remaining five, he leveled his gun on the man's head, grabbed him by the shoulder and roughly turned him over. Hogan and the others watched him check for life and then move on to the next, his face set in a hard expression.

Hogan quickly reloaded his gun, glanced at Kinch. "Get the men ready. We're leaving."

"Still need braces for Benson's leg," Kinch said, tone matter-of-fact. Like Hogan, he kept an eye on Tivoli, ready to back him up.

"I dropped them when our company showed up." Hogan holstered his gun, and then started toward the spot where he had left the branches. Just before he disappeared into the shadows, he said over his shoulder, "I'll be back in a minute."

Passing up the branches, Hogan angled away from the path they would take back to Stalag 13, doubled over and was quietly sick.

* * *

_TBC. Thank you for reading. Please take a moment and leave a review. Thank you. _


	36. Chapter 36

_Thank you to my beta, Marilyn Penner, for looking over several earlier versions of this. As always, mistakes are mine because I always play with the chapter afterward._

* * *

**Chapter 36**

Benson managed the painful climb down the ladder into the tunnels. Once he was down, though, Hogan refused to let him go any further without assistance. Tivoli stepped forward without waiting to be told, put a shoulder under his friend's arm, and headed for the locker room.

O'Malley rushed them as soon as they entered the room, his gaze homing in on Benson's bent leg.

"What happened?"

A grin flashed across Maddux's muddy face as he trudged past. "Ah, he fell over his own big feet."

"Nah," Tivoli grunted, lowering Benson onto a chair. "He tried kicking my butt, missed and ended up hitting a tree instead."

O'Malley knelt at Benson's feet and looked up at him.

"Try bending it."

Benson tried and couldn't. "It's only a bad sprain," he said, trying not to flinch as O'Malley poked and fussed over the knee. "Really, it's fi . . ."

Hogan stepped into his line of vision, wearing a look that silently ordered, 'do as I say, not as I do'. Benson sagged back in the chair, glared up at Tivoli when his friend told him to "Behave".

Hogan gripped Benson's shoulder, flicked a quick, hard look at Tivoli that let him know they would talk later, then went to his locker and quickly stripped out of his wet clothing. He was just buttoning up a clean shirt when Broughton came by, arms loaded with blankets. Wrapping up in one, Hogan drifted through the crowd to the other side of the room, keeping his ears open for O'Malley's diagnosis. Benson was probably right about the injury being only a sprain, but O'Malley's opinion was the one that counted.

Finding an empty spot along the wall, Hogan propped himself up. Quiet chatter and soft laughter rolled over him, comforting and familiar, as the members of the team replayed the night's events, embellishing minor details and playing down the more dangerous ones. The other men weren't fooled. Everyone knew the dangers involved and the likelihood of never returning from even the simplest mission.

Hogan was lost in thought when a loud bang sounded from the other side of the room. He jolted away from the wall and for one dizzying moment, was back in the woods, lightning crashing overhead, his gun centered on Tivoli's forehead. Then he was back in the locker room looking across the room at Maddux and Jones. The two had apparently been kidding around as usual and had knocked into the wall of the lockers, slamming one of the doors closed.

Hogan glanced around the room and blew out a breath of relief when it appeared that his reaction had gone unnoticed. Silently berating himself for being so jumpy, he quickly picked his blanket off the floor and wrapped up again. This time when he leaned back, he kept his attention from wandering, grounding himself in the present.

Newkirk and Carter were playfully bemoaning the heap of muddy clothing when Lyons and Jones appeared, towels slung over their shoulders and buckets of water in their hands. Maddux, Braveheart and Kinch eagerly set to scrubbing away all evidence of their night, while Broughton stood ready with blankets, reminding Hogan of a muscular valet in a men's club.

Lyons came to Hogan with one of the buckets, a towel and cloth. He took a towel, but waved off the bucket and cloth; preferring his men have as much water as they needed. He would clean up once they were done.

Hogan shivered as he scrubbed the towel over his hair, feeling chilled despite the blanket and dry clothing. Lights seemed too bright, voices too loud. Tossing the towel aside, he dragged a hand over his face, exhausted but unable to relax. It would take time to shake off what _could_ have happened, and to absorb what _hadn_'t.

"_Colonel_."

Fragrant steam hit Hogan's nose. LeBeau smiled up at him, a tray of steaming cups in his hands.

"Vegetable broth. It will help warm you."

Hogan shifted his grip on the blanket, and lifted a cup from the tray with his free hand. LeBeau moved on, distributing the rest to the other members of the team.

Hogan shook his head at LeBeau's forethought, then took a tentative sip of the broth. It was just the right temperature, and was loaded with chunks of chopped carrot, onions and potatoes from their larder. The cup was soon drained, the nourishing broth blunting the chill.

Over the hum of voices, Hogan heard O'Malley declare Benson's self-diagnosis had been on the money. Kinch looked in Hogan's direction, an unreadable expression on his face. A moment later, he was weaving a path through the crowd to Hogan's side.

"We saved you a bucket of water."

Hogan scratched a few flecks of mud from his chin, finding it vaguely ironic that his skin felt dry and itchy after being wet for so long. "Thanks." He peered across the room, then cut a sideways glance at Kinch. "Ben's done with Benson, now. Get on over there and have him check your shoulder."

The surprise that flickered over Kinch's face was quickly supplanted by a sheepish grin. "Should've known you'd notice I was favoring it. I must have landed on it wrong when we took our flying leap into the woods. There's no need to bother Ben, Colonel. Some liniment ought to take care of the soreness."

Hogan lifted an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir," Kinch softly sighed in defeat.

An impish grin crinkled the skin around Hogan's eyes. "Look on the bright side, buddy. At least the bad ol' brambles didn't get you this time."

Kinch laughed. "Hey, those things are sneaky. They always wait until my back is turned to grab me. Don't ever take your eyes off 'em."

"I'll be sure to keep my distance next time I see one." Hogan's smile fell away when he glanced at his watch and saw how little time they had left until roll call.

He cast a quick look around the room. The crowd had thinned but not by much. They would need a bigger locker room if this habit of meeting en masse after a mission continued. He turned to Kinch, his tone now business-like.

"Time to break up the party."

Kinch looked across the room. Tivoli was talking with Benson, Braveheart and Maddux near the lockers, and kept glancing in their direction, but made no move to approach. Considering the circumstances, Kinch thought he was wise to keep his distance.

"What about Tivoli, Colonel? Are you sending him packing?"

"Ask me again when I'm not still seeing his face at the end of my gun," Hogan snapped.

"He's a good man, sir. Just a little hot-headed."

Hogan stared at him in disbelief. "A _little_?"

"He's Italian," Kinch said, a faint grin pulling at his lips.

Hogan's expression hardened. "Stop making excuses for him, Kinch. He ignored my orders and history almost repeated itself. I nearly blew his hot Italian head off."

"It's not the first time one of us has gone against orders, sir," Kinch argued. Another small grin crept out. "You've even done it yourself a few times. Give him another chance."

"He's had more than his share already." Hogan held up a hand, cutting off further arguments. "Enough, Kinch. You still need to get your shoulder checked, and I still need to wash off this crud."

He waved to get O'Malley's attention and once he had it, pointed to Kinch. The medic nodded and started toward them.

Kinch cleared his throat. "Colonel . . ."

"Yeah?"

"One last thing about Tivoli." Kinch continued, despite Hogan's stormy expression. "Are you angry because he didn't follow orders or because you almost shot him?"

"Sir?"

Hogan's gaze sliced from Kinch to O'Malley. The medic swallowed, clearly uncomfortable about overhearing what had obviously been a private conversation.

"Take a look at Kinch's shoulder." Hogan picked the towel up again and turned back to Kinch. "I'll consider it." He walked away, headed for the buckets.

O'Malley cleared his throat, and once he had Kinch's full attention, took him by the arm and guided him toward one of the empty chairs. He grinned at Kinch, cocked an eyebrow.

"Have you been tusseling with brambles again?"

* * *

_Thank you for reading._


	37. Chapter 37

_Now beta-ed, by my wonderful beta Marilyn!_

**Chapter 37**

* * *

Hogan jerked awake a few hours later, head full of bloody afterimages and heart racing. Kicking his legs free of the tangled blanket, he threw his legs over the edge of the bunk and gently massaged his temples. A small, rueful grin came and went as his sense of humor kicked in.

_You'd think my imagination could come up with something different by now._

He had come to expect the nightmares, which were always a variation of the same theme, only with different places, faces and circumstances. For all their repetitiveness, the images had not lost any of their sickening impact.

The chuckle that escaped him had absolutely nothing to do with humor. He had foolishly half-hoped as he had slid toward sleep that he might be free of the nightmares – for a few nights at least. In his heart, though, he had truly not believed it would happen. Just because they had successfully completed the mission without losing anyone, and just because he had not shot Tivoli, did not mean the nightmares would suddenly stop.

"Colonel?"

Hogan jerked his head up and dropped his hands to his lap, surprised that he had not heard a knock. Kinch stood in the doorway, a cup of coffee in one hand, and at Hogan's beckoning gesture, entered and closed the door. His eyes swept over Hogan from head to foot, taking in the rumpled uniform and booted feet.

Hogan shrugged, smiled a little.

"Didn't see any reason to change for only a few hours of sleep."

"Did you?"

Hogan stared at him, not awake enough yet to follow the line of conversation. Kinch frowned.

"Sleep. Did you get any?"

"Oh. Yeah." Hogan stood, stretched his arms over his head and twisted from side to side. A few twinges popped up here and there, and his bad shoulder sent out a warning throb, but nothing was painful enough to slow him down. He scrubbed his hands over his face, grimaced as whiskers rasped against his palms. He had better shave or Klink would make good his threat about spending time in the cooler. He took a step toward his locker, only to stop when a jaw-cracking yawn took him by surprise. When he opened his eyes again, Kinch held out the cup of coffee.

"Bless you," Hogan breathed, taking the cup. The coffee was hot and strong, just the thing to clear away the last of the cobwebs. He took another drink, studied Kinch closely over the cup's rim, looking for lines of pain about the eyes, stiffness in the way his second held his shoulders. A twitch of Kinch's mustache said he was well aware of what Hogan was doing.

Grinning, Hogan lowered the cup a little. "How's the shoulder?"

"Better." Kinch easily rolled said shoulder, extended his arm forward and then over his head to prove it.

Hogan nodded, happy to see the improvement. He supposed it might be too much to hope that Benson's knee would be doing as well. Making a mental note to check, he quickly drained the cup and set it on his desk.

"How much time until roll call?"

Kinch quickly consulted his watch. "Sixteen minutes."

Plenty of time. Hogan went to his locker, took out his razor and soap and set them on the small shelf next to the locker.

Kinch tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and slouched against the door. "London sent their congratulations on a 'job well done'."

Hogan merely grunted in response to that bit of news. He checked his reflection in the mirror, wrinkled his nose at the dark circles under his eyes. All things considered, he felt fine - more at home in his skin . . . _Steadier_, his mind whispered . . . for the first time in a very long time. Less like he was trying to keep his balance on a high wire while carrying an anvil on his back.

Deciding his CO had nothing else to say, Kinch proceeded with his morning report. "Marc relayed a message from someone wanting to meet with Papa Bear."

Hogan finished lathering his beard, picked up his straight razor and carefully drew the sharp blade down his cheek, scraping off whiskers. He threw a glance at Kinch as he grabbed a towel and wiped the blade clean.

"This someone have a name?"

"None that Marc passed along."

The razor paused over Hogan's other cheek. He turned his head, looked directly at Kinch. "He didn't give us a name."

Kinch confirmed it with another shake of his head.

Hogan finished with the other cheek, wiped the blade clean again, then quickly took care of the rest of his face. His smooth-skinned reflection looked back at him as he wiped off the leftover spots of lather.

"Anonymous guy passed all the checks?"

"Marc was satisfied. He intends to bring him to the meeting himself if you give the 'go-ahead'."

Hogan put the razor and soap away and tossed the used towel in the hamper beside his locker. "Okay, then. When?"

"Friday. The time and coordinates are on the clipboard by the radio. The location's close enough you can reach it on foot."

Hogan ran a comb through his hair, thinking. Friday was three days from now. Long enough for all his little aches and pains to fade and for the ground to dry out. He nodded to himself, knowing he would be more than ready to go back out by then if nothing came up in the meantime.

"I'll take Newkirk with -- " He interrupted himself when Kinch shook his head. "What?"

"You're to go alone."

"Why?"

"Apparently the information's too sensitive to give to anyone but you, and you, alone." Kinch went quiet for a moment. "It could be a trap. Sure sounds like one."

Hogan waggled his head in agreement. It sure did. But it probably wasn't by virtue of its obviousness. And it certainly was not the first time that he had been asked to go to a rendezvous alone. He put his shaving kit away, pushed his locker door shut and walked to his bunk, head bowed in thought. Marc Zoellner was a trusted agent, a key link in their chain of local people involved in Underground activities. He was also extremely careful in all his dealings with anyone, even those he had worked with before. He would not have relayed the message unless he was completely satisfied the request was legitimate.

_On the other hand_, Hogan thought. _Marc can be fooled just like anyone else._

He considered both sides a few moments longer, made his choice and then turned back to Kinch. "I'll go."

"I'll let Marc know." Kinch pulled his hands from his pockets and folded his arms, gnawed on the inside of his lower lip.

Hogan could guess what was on his mind, and twirled one hand in a 'give it to me' gesture. "Go ahead and ask."

"Have you decided?"

Hogan took his jacket off the top bunk, shook it out and started pulling it on. "Yup."

Whistles sounded outside the barracks, calling the prisoners to morning roll call. Kinch straightened away from the door and moved aside. "So . . ." His voice trailed off as Hogan's grin took on a wicked slant. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Hogan plucked his crush cap from the top bunk and seated it on his head. "Nope."

Schultz's voice sounded on the other side of the door, followed by a succession of muffled thumps as men jumped down from their bunks. Hogan glanced from the door to Kinch, and after a slight hesitation, asked, "Anything from a certain striped feline of the feminine persuasion?"

Kinch's expression softened. "Sorry, sir."

Hogan reached for the door, his good mood gone.

He paused to check the sky as soon as he stepped outside, vaguely aware of Schultz going back into the barracks and Kinch walking on to his place in formation. Dark gray clouds left over from the storm hovered just above the horizon. He was glad to see the rest of the sky was shifting from shades of gray to blue as the sun crept above the trees. A sunny day was just what they needed to dry things out. The prison compound, for one, had been transformed overnight into a sea of mud.

Hogan slogged through the thick slop to his place in line, telling himself to look on the bright side. At least the mud provided a convenient explanation for their muddy boots and Benson's sprained knee.

Stragglers filed out of the barracks and into rank at a slow trickle, exhausted from little sleep, impervious to Schultz's pleas to 'raus'. _Some days_, Hogan thought, watching Schultz start his count, _we have only one speed. Slow._

He frowned as the thought sunk in. His men could use some rest, at least several nights without last minute calls from London, unexpected crisis situations and road detail. He could not do anything about London, but he would do whatever he could to keep Klink's demands in check. There would not be any more road detail for awhile if he had his way.

Roll call was quick, as no one, Klink included, wanted to linger long in the cool, muddy, conditions. Hogan was not unduly surprised when the kommandant made no mention of the destruction wreaked by the Resistance during the night. The tower had been a carefully guarded secret, possibly even from Klink.

As soon as roll call was over, Hogan headed over to Barracks Ten.

He spotted Benson seated on a bench someone had dragged out of the barracks. Tivoli was with him, one foot propped on the end of the bench, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Benson was gesturing up at him, mouth going a mile a minute. Tivoli's lips twisted into a smirk. He shook his head, took a drag on the cigarette and then said something that got a laugh from Benson.

_Should have known they'd be together,_ Hogan thought.

Tivoli saw Hogan coming and straightened, casually removing his foot off the bench. The end of the cigarette bounced as he said something to Benson. Benson's head whipped in Hogan's direction and he started to stand, clearly favoring his injured leg. Tivoli threw his cigarette to the ground, grabbed Benson under the arm and carefully helped him to his feet.

"I'm fine, sir," Benson said before Hogan had even come to a halt. "Sore as Hell, but I'll be good as new in a few days." He patently ignored Tivoli's huff of disbelief.

Hogan nodded down at Benson's bad leg. "Can you put any weight on it?"

Benson's entire face twitched. "How much weight?"

Tivoli bit down on his lower lip, suddenly found something interesting in the sky.

"Sit down, Benson." Hogan leaned his good shoulder against the barracks, and once Benson was sitting again, casually said, "I think it's going to take more than a few days, don't you?"

Benson opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded. "Yeah."

Hogan chuckled. "Enjoy the time off." His smiled faded as he straightened and turned to Tivoli, jerked a thumb in the direction of Barracks Two. "Come with me."

Benson absently kneaded his sore knee with one hand, his gaze following them until they were out of sight. He did not believe that their CO would send Tivoli packing, but only time would tell.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"You thought _what_?"

Tivoli flinched, but quickly recovered. "I've seen it happen before. The guy starts taking more and more risks, just throwing his life out there, glaring death in the eye until it finally takes him up on it, and the guy gets his wish."

Of all the things Hogan had expected Tivoli to say, this was one that had never occurred to him. He'd had some dark days – after bombing raids, after his brother's death, after losing men, and especially after Marta – but none so dark that he had thought of taking that final step to stop the pain.

"I may be a lot of things, Tivoli, but suicidal isn't one of them."

Tivoli's eyes stayed locked on the far wall of Hogan's quarters, his hands at his sides, clenched into fists. His tone was stiff, the voice of a man uncomfortable with the subject and the emotion behind it.

"I didn't think so, either. But I wasn't going to sit around on my butt this time and wait to see if I was wrong."

Hogan's eyes narrowed.

_This time._

"Someone you knew pushed the dare too far?"

Tivoli's black eyes flickered to Hogan and away again. "A friend." The clipped tone and tight-lipped expression told Hogan not to push. Not about this. There had been a true undercurrent of pain in the response.

_Damnit_, Hogan sighed to himself.

"I never really thought you'd do anything." Tivoli's voice was soft, almost apologetic. "But I never thought Lou would either."

"So you ignored my orders and snuck out of camp to protect me from myself. And nearly got yourself killed for it." Hogan moved closer and right into Tivoli's line of sight. "Protecting my life at the expense of your own isn't acceptable."

Tivoli's jaw took on a mulish slant. "Why not? You do the same for us all the time."

"I'm your CO," Hogan snapped. "It's my job. Command structure exists for a reason and choice has no place in it. Ever since you came here, you've bucked my orders and caused trouble every chance you got. I gave you chance after chance after chance. Then you finally started proving you could be a valuable member of our operation, and I thought your days of bucking orders were over." Hogan's voice deepened with anger and disappointment. "But then last night you did it again."

Tivoli's throat flexed as he swallowed, but his ramrod posture never faltered and his eyes stayed front and center.

"No more chances," Hogan growled. "Your grace period is over as of today."

Tivoli's expression underwent several swift changes. Hogan let him sweat; let him think the worst, then delivered his decision in a firm voice.

"When you walk out that door, it'll be with a clean slate. All past sins erased. You saved at least one life last night, Tivoli, even though it was almost at the cost of your own."

Elation and relief flashed in Tivoli's black eyes, and his full lips twitched with the hint of a smile. Hogan quickly brought him back to earth.

"I'm more than happy about the way things turned out last night, but that doesn't mean that I'm okay with the fact that you disobeyed me again. It will be for the _last_ time. If it isn't, I'll have your ticket out of here cut before you can say, 'arrivederci'. And _nothing_ and _nobody_ will get me to change my mind."

_Again_, Hogan silently added.

The breath seemed to go out of Tivoli. Then his shoulders straightened and his chin rose. "_Grazie, Colonnello_." He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Hold up, there," Hogan ordered, folding his arms.

Tivoli turned back, eyebrows lifted.

A devilish smile stretched across Hogan's face. "We're not done yet."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

The door to Hogan's quarters flew open and Tivoli stormed out, swarthy face flushed with anger. Carter jumped up from the table and moved to intercept him.

"Hey, what –"

Tivoli roughly brushed by, jerked the barracks door open and marched out, slamming the door behind him. Carter stared after him in surprise.

"Well, I guess we know what that means," Olsen said from his cross-legged position on his bunk. He shook his head and rolled onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. He would miss Tivoli. The Italian was a hardheaded S.O.B., but he had started to become a friend, too. The goon squad would not be the same without him.

O'Malley gazed sadly at the closed barracks' door. "He did it, then."

"Looks like." Newkirk took a deep drag on his cigarette, started slapping cards on the table for another hand of solitaire.

Kinch stared blindly into the distance, fighting disappointment.

"Never thought the day would come that I'd be sad to see Tivoli go," Paxton said to Braveheart.

"The only place he's going is somewhere to cool off."

Heads whipped toward Hogan's quarters. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, a studiously blank expression on his face. There was, however, a distinct twinkle in his eyes.

Kinch glanced between Hogan and the barracks door. "He's staying?"

Hogan nodded. Carter and LeBeau exchanged looks, their confusion apparent.

"If you're not shipping him out, then why is he so angry?" LeBeau asked.

Hogan shrugged. "It could have something to do with being restricted to camp for two months and having laundry duty for three."

Smiles and laughter broke out, along with a loud whoop of happiness from Olsen. Kinch and Hogan shared grins from across the room, and then Hogan backed into his quarters and shut the door, leaving them to their celebration.

* * *

_Just a few to go now. Thank you for reading. _


	38. Chapter 38

_Thank you for your help Marilyn!_

* * *

**Chapter 38**

"Well?" Benson took in Tivoli's thunderous expression and held his breath, expecting the worst.

"I'm staying!" Tivoli snatched his cap from his head and threw it hard against Barracks 9. Watching it land upside down on the muddy ground didn't improve his mood. He grabbed it out of the mud, glared at the dirty material and then put the cap back on, mud and all. Trying to brush it off when it was wet would only compound the mess.

Benson leaned back against the wall and studied his friend, puzzled by the odd reaction. If Tivoli was staying, why was he acting like he would gladly strangle the first thing that got in his way?

"Hey. Did I miss something?"

Tivoli balled his hands on his hips and spewed a rapid stream of Italian. Benson rolled his eyes, waved his hands to stop the flood.

"Me no speaky crazy Italiano, remember?"

Tivoli threw his head back and glared at the sky, sucking in deep breaths. Once his temper was under control, he looked at Benson and spoke slowly, his voice tightly controlled.

"He restricted me to camp for two months and gave me laundry duty for three."

Benson winced in sympathy. "Ouch."

Their CO knew Tivoli well enough to hit him right where it would hurt the most. The Italian loved going outside the fences for any reason: missions, recon, or just to walk around and enjoy the pleasure of being away from the guards and fences that reminded him of his captivity. The knockout punch, though, was being saddled with laundry duty. Tiv absolutely hated the so-called 'women's work' with a passion and always bribed one of the other men – usually Maddux, Jones or Lyons – to take his turn. The way Tivoli saw it, everyone benefited. He got out of a chore he hated, and someone ended up richer by half a dozen chocolate bars or even a pack of cigarettes.

Tivoli huffed a deep sigh and dropped onto the bench, the anger draining out of him. Shoulders drooping, he bowed his head and stared at the ground between his feet, seeing not dirt, but washtub upon washtub of dirty laundry and reddened, chapped hands.

"_Dannazione_, Bense, it's going to be a long three months."

"Look at it this way," Benson said after a few moments of silent commiseration. "If not for his great reaction time, you wouldn't be around to serve the sentence."

Tivoli nodded. "Looking down the barrel of that gun was like looking into the mouth of a cannon."

"What do you think it felt like for the colonel, seeing you from the other end of that barrel?"

Tivoli imagined what it might have been like if their positions had been reversed, and felt his gorge rise in his throat. He swallowed the burn, cold sweat popping out on his face.

"Yeah," Benson said, nodding.

"Okay," Tivoli breathed, wiping the back of his hand across his upper lip. "I guess I deserve every bit of the punishment . . . but the next three months are still going to be the longest of my life!"

Benson cocked his head, the better to get a good look at Tivoli's face. "You're going to stick to his restrictions, right?"

Tivoli's brow puckered with a deep frown. Benson sat up straighter, the sudden move jostling his knee. A mixture of alarm and pain raised his voice.

"You _are, right_?"

Tivoli slowly turned his head toward Benson, his mouth set in a tight, hard line. One look at Benson's wide eyed expression and he started laughing.

"Relax, Bense. I was just playing with you. I gave him my word."

Benson glared at him. "I'd punch you if I wasn't incapacitated right now."

Tivoli's grin grew to shark-like dimensions. "Hold onto that thought. Once your knee's better, I'll let you have a go at me in the ring."

"Yeah, right," Benson laughed. "I'll just wait until you're elbow deep in dirty laundry to take my revenge."

Tivoli's grin melted into a glower at the reminder of his punishment.

"_Dannazione,_ it's going be a long three months!"

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan turned a page, read a few more lines and then tossed the coverless book down on his bunk. The plot was not all that interesting and his mind kept straying to his men and the meeting with his mysterious contact. His wish for some time off had come true, and his men were back to full strength after three days of rest. Even Benson was walking with only a slight limp. His own aches and pains had vanished and as predicted, he was more than ready to go back out tonight.

Just thinking about it prompted him to check his watch. Still nearly seven hours until he could leave for the meeting.

Taking in a deep breath, he stretched out on his back, tucked his arms behind his head and crossed his legs at the ankles. Might as well get a nap in since there was nothing else to do.

His eyes had just closed when he heard the loud rumble of engines outside the barracks. Newkirk popped his head into the room, his face flushed with excitement.

"Trucks pulling up, Guv'nor. Klink's clucking and fussing about like an ol' biddy hen."

Hogan laughed at the image of a chicken in German uniform, wearing a monocle and holding a riding crop under its wing. Following Newkirk outside, he worked his way to the front of the crowd forming in front of Barracks Two and settled between Carter and LeBeau. Pulling his cap low to shield his eyes from the bright sun, he took in the line of canvas-covered cargo trucks parked in the middle of the yard. Klink was darting from truck to truck, peeking beneath the canvases covering each truck's cargo area.

Carter cocked his head, puzzled by Klink's behavior. "What do you suppose is going on, Colonel?"

"I don't know," Hogan murmured, watching Klink issue directions to the drivers. While they went to the backs of their trucks and lowered the tailgates, Klink exchanged words with Schultz, glanced toward Barracks Two, said something else to Schultz and then walked back to his headquarters at a fast clip. Schultz headed toward Barracks Two, while Langenscheidt and more of the guards dispersed, on course for the other barracks.

"Well," Newkirk huffed, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. "Guess we'll find out soon enough what the ruddy blighters are up to."

"I bet it involves work," Kinch murmured.

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz called, waving a hand as if expecting Hogan to suddenly run away. "All mattresses and pillows are to be brought out immediately and loaded into the first four trucks."

LeBeau folded his arms, jutted his lower lip. "What are we to sleep on?"

Schultz's cheeks dimpled with an expansive grin. "The new mattresses and pillows from the other four trucks."

Exclamations of surprise broke out and the men surged toward the trucks, swallowing Schultz in their midst.

Hogan and Kinch glanced at each other.

"We're not due for another Red Cross inspection yet," Hogan said, watching his men surround the backs of the trucks.

Kinch shrugged. "It's probably a mix-up and they'll be back in a few days to take them away from us and give them to another camp." He flashed a smile at his CO, rubbed his hands together. "Guess I'd better get in there and lend a hand."

Hogan slanted a thoughtful look at the window of Klink's headquarters, then ambled after Kinch to do his part.

Klink watched all the activity from behind the curtain in his office, a wide grin splitting his face. Schultz was going back and forth between the trucks, directing the loading of the old bedding and the unloading of the new. Hogan was not in sight, but Klink knew was there by how efficiently the work was proceeding. The prisoners rarely responded with such alacrity to any of Schultz's orders.

Flush with satisfaction at seeing his good deed come to fruition, Klink returned to his desk and after buffing his monocle clean, went back to work. The smile never strayed far from his face and a chuckle escaped now and then as he wrote.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

"So . . ."

Hogan looked up from tying his boot. Kinch was seated straddle-legged on the next bench, arms folded and a slight frown on his face.

"So," Hogan prompted, drawing the word out.

Kinch rubbed a hand over his mustache. "This meeting . . ."

Hogan tied the other boot, double-checked both knots and yanked his trouser cuffs down once he was done. His gaze cut from Kinch to his locker and he reached inside, dug through the supplies in the bottom and came up with a tin of soot.

"Spit it out, Kinch."

Kinch sighed heavily. "I think it's a bad idea."

Hogan sat straight up, the tin in his hand forgotten. "Because you think it might be a trap or because you're wondering if I'm still okay with using my gun?"

Kinch shook his head, raised a hand, palm toward Hogan. "You've proven under the worst possible circumstances that you're more than capable of using it, and that your instincts are as good as ever." He paused, then added, "You didn't freeze that night, and you won't ever again."

Hogan looked down at the tin, turned it over in his hand a few times. "But if I do," he said, so softly that Kinch leaned forward a little to hear him. "I hope the only life lost will be my own."

"You won't." Kinch mentally shook his head, surprised that they had to cover this again. Before he could say anything more, Hogan looked up and grinned at him.

"Just stop right there, buddy. I don't need any pep talks tonight. I'm fine. Just reminding _you_ that neither of us can see the future, or what either of us might do in any situation." The grin widened, the teasing lilt in his voice strengthened. "After all, we're only human, remember?"

Kinch bowed his head, covered his eyes with his hand and groaned. He peeked out from beneath his palm at the sound of Hogan's laughter. "In other words, 'drop it'?"

Hogan nodded, the grin as strong as ever. Kinch laughed.

"Okay. Consider it dropped. But . . ." His demeanor abruptly shifted from playful to deadly serious. "As far as this meeting goes, I still think it's a bad idea. Let me go along to back you up in case it really _is_ a trap."

Hogan cocked his head, gave Kinch a faint version of his cocky smile. "I have it on very good authority that my instincts are as good as ever . . ." he paused as Kinch rolled his eyes. "And my excellent instincts are telling me that everything will be fine."

Grinning, Kinch touched two fingertips to his forehead. "Gotcha."

Hogan slapped him on the shoulder. "Don't wait up, Mom."

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan closed the lid to the entrance and trotted into the bush just ahead of the searchlight's beam. He kept up as fast a pace as possible, eager to put a cushion of safety between him and the guards' perimeter route.

He had not gone far when a soft whine brought him up short. He pivoted toward the sound and crouched, grinning in anticipation. The undergrowth rustled with movement and Heidi bounded into view, her tan and black coat glistening with dew. She stopped just out of arms' reach, her cocked head and perked ears giving her a quizzical look.

Hogan put a finger to his lips, then crooked it. Heidi leaped forward and crowded up against his chest, wriggling with happiness at seeing him. Her tongue flashed out over and over, swiping warm kisses over his cheek and ear. Hogan's grin briefly widened and he tucked his face into the thick ruff of fur protecting her neck, evading the show of affection. Heidi wriggled backward a step and lifted her soft gaze to his face, her head tilting again. Hogan stroked a hand down the back of her neck to her powerful shoulders.

"How's my girl?" he whispered.

Heidi's head tilted in the opposite direction, the blonde markings over her eyes twitching. She lifted a paw, brought it to rest upon his knee and before he could dodge, gave his cheek another quick swipe. He scratched the base of one her sharply pointed ears, grinned when her eyes half-closed in pleasure.

"Hey," he breathed, bringing his face closer to hers. "It'll be awhile before Tivoli's back out here, but next time he is, give him a little nip on the leg, okay?"

Heidi's eyes rolled up to Hogan's face, a rumble sounding deep in her chest. He held up a finger, wagged it before her nose.

"Just a nip, Heidi, as a reminder to behave himself while he's outside the fences."

A sharp, two-tone whistle sounded in the distance. Heidi's ears pricked and her head whipped toward Stalag 13, but she didn't budge from his embrace. Hogan gently scrubbed his fingers through her ruff and she looked back at him, tail wagging a slow beat.

"Better go before he comes looking for you."

Heidi whined low in her throat. Hogan gently lifted her paw from his knee.

"What? You think I don't know the way back by now?" He pointed toward Stalag 13. "I'll make it before roll call. Go on, girl."

Heidi whirled and bounded back into the brush.

Hogan gave her time to return to Gottschalk, then went on, his eyes and ears open for danger.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Marc Zoellner's truck was parked in a small, hidden glen off a sparsely traveled road. After several circuits of the surrounding area, Hogan was satisfied that they were alone. Pulling out his small flashlight, he pointed it slightly below the truck's dark windshield, and clicked the light on and off three times, paused, then flashed it a fourth time. A light instantly flared to life inside the truck's cab, flashing the coded answer. Stowing the flashlight back in his pocket Hogan made his way through the trees to the truck. Zoellner walked out to meet him, wearing a broad grin.

"Good evening, sir," Marc rumbled, clasping Hogan's outstretched hand. "It has been a long time."

"That it has, Marc. Everyone in the family doing okay?"

"Ah," the cobbler sighed, shrugging a massive shoulder. "The little one is cutting teeth."

Hogan grimaced. "Ow." His eyes went to the truck and his tone turned crisp. "My contact in there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Guess I should go say 'hi'." Hogan took a couple of steps toward the truck, realized that Marc hadn't moved, and threw a questioning look over his shoulder. "You coming?"

A small smile flickered over Marc's broad face. "You go ahead. I have some business of my own to take care of." The smile took on sheepish overtones. "Too much to drink before I left home."

Hogan huffed a small laugh. Had anyone else used the same lame excuse under similar circumstances, he would have been suspicious. But if Marc said he had to attend to the call of nature then it was either true or there was a good reason for him to lie about making himself scarce.

Hogan went to the back of the truck, opened the doors and got in, taking a seat immediately inside. His hand automatically settled upon the butt of his gun. Squinting in the poor light, he could just make out a figure seated in deep shadow at the far end of the truck. Wrapping his fingers around the pistol's grip, he spoke the assigned code phrase. There was a brief pause and then the answering code was given in a breathless voice that was very close to a whisper. He frowned, trying to place it. There was something . . .

He leaned forward, fingers still wrapped upon his weapon's grip, and tried to make out his contact's features, but the shadows hid them well. Frustration bled into his tone.

"We don't have all night, fella. What's this highly sensitive information that you wanted to give me?"

There was a rustle of clothing, but no answer. Hogan frowned.

"Hey, why don't we have some light so we can see? Don't worry. No one will be able to see it from outside." Without waiting for an answer and without taking his eyes off the other man, Hogan stretched out his free hand and turned the wick up on the lantern hanging from the ceiling.

The higher flame revealed a hunched figure seated in profile, cap pulled down low and collar turned up. A wisp of dark hair curled from under the back of the cap, but other than that, Hogan could make out little. Puzzled by the strange behavior and even warier than before, he tightened his fingers upon the pistol's grip.

"Shy?" Hogan quipped with a faint smile. Again, there was no response and his smile faded to nothing. Annoyance topped his wariness.

"Listen, fella. I've got a brand new lumpy mattress and ratty blanket waiting for me, so why don't you just speak up and tell me why you called me here?"

His contact's shoulders uncurled and small hands reached up to fold the jacket's collar down. Pivoting on the bench, his contact swept off the cap, presenting a full view of very familiar features. The short, dark hair was new, but Hogan would know that face anywhere.

He quickly released his grip on the pistol and surged forward. They met in the middle of the truck, their arms winding about each other in a tight embrace. Close-cropped, brunette curls brushed Hogan's nose, lightly scented with soap. Feeling a knot loosen deep inside his heart, he drew in a deep breath, lowered his head and met her halfway again. Their lips pressed into a kiss that rapidly gained bruising intensity. A soft sound came from the back of Tiger's throat and she reached up to cup his cheeks.

One kiss led to another and another. Hogan gently guided her down to the floor and there were blankets, and how could he have missed that, and who the heck cared and oh, how he had _missed_ her . . .

His last coherent thought when he felt her unbuckle his gun belt and slide it away from his hips was,_ Glad I told Kinch not to wait up_.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Just one more chapter to go. _


	39. Chapter 39

_Huge thanks to Marilyn Penner, my faithful, talented beta-reader, for all her wonderful 'pressies', for holding my hand or giving me gentle kicks in the creative butt, and for always providing sound, invaluable advice. Mistakes are mine, as I always mess with the chapter after she's seen it._

_Many thanks to you, too, for your reviews and encouragement. Merry Christmas to you all, and a very happy New Year, too._

* * *

**Chapter 39**

Hogan lingered at the truck's bumper, trying to stretch his reunion with Tiger out a little longer. He looked past the rumpled blankets to a deep shadow at the back of the truck and crooked a finger, beckoning. Tiger obligingly glided closer, her seductive grin becoming more defined with her passage from shadow to light. Reaching the edge of the cargo area, she rested a hand upon his shoulder to maintain her balance and turned the full force of the smile upon him. Her low chuckle flashed goose bumps down his arms and he smiled against her lips.

"I've got to go."

Her hand wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him into the kiss. He gave in with a quiet moan, thinking another minute or two could not hurt. When they broke apart, he slid his fingers through her short hair, tugged on one of the silky, brown curls, rolled the lock between his fingers. It would take some time to get used to her new look. But he liked it, mainly because the disguise gave her a better chance of evading capture.

"I've _really _got to go," he whispered, grinning. She nodded, somber and compliant, but fisted small hands in the front of his jacket and pulled him right back for another kiss. His laugh quickly cut off as she licked along his lower lip, then lightly nipped it.

A discreet cough came from the shadows a short distance away. Hogan and Tiger separated, flushed like teenagers caught necking on the porch. Tiger glanced past Hogan's shoulder at Marc and then met Hogan's eyes with a deep sigh. Her whisper and gaze were mournful.

"You've got to go."

He slowly nodded, cupped a hand to her cheek. Her eyes closed and she turned her head, nuzzled his palm, and then pressed a kiss to it. He made himself step back. She bit her lip, gave a small wave and retreated to the shadows deep in the cargo area. Hogan closed the doors, rested his hand against them a moment, then took a deep breath and turned to face Marc. The cobbler's expression was sympathetic as he moved forward and gently clapped a hand to Hogan's shoulder.

"I will see her safely back to her camp, Papa Bear."

Hogan was unable to manage anything more than a quiet 'thank you,' and immediately walked away rather than watch the truck - and Tiger – leave.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch looked up as the jingle of a small bell announced someone had just come through the stump entrance. Grinning, he went back to writing and was close to finishing when a voice tinged with mild irritation came from the doorway.

"I thought I told you not to wait up."

Kinch stopped writing and looked up, the picture of innocence. "And I didn't."

"Then your presence here at . . ." Hogan made a show of checking his watch. "0h-three-thirty-four is just coincidence?"

Kinch hitched a shoulder in a casual shrug and pointed his pencil at the stack of envelopes sitting on the corner of the table. "Couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd use the time to write some letters home. This," he added, tapping the pencil upon the sheet of paper lying before him. "Is the last one."

"Ah," Hogan replied, eyebrows arching. "My apologies for interrupting." He motioned to the paper as he passed by. "Finish your letter."

The hint of laughter in his CO's voice and the twinkle in his dark eyes were dead giveaways that he had not bought the excuse for a moment. Kinch dropped the pencil upon the paper and folded his arms, the grin returning to his face. Hogan swung a leg over the bench in front of his locker and sat, tugging his black sweater off. Kinch's grin turned to a frown and his eyes narrowed, taking in the matching sets of scratches across both shoulder blades. Realization dawned an instant later as all the clues surrounding the mysterious meeting came together.

Tiger was back. Kinch would have bet one of his momma's cream pies on it. He barely had time to kill his smile before Hogan slanted a quick look and smirk in his direction.

"You're not writing. Nothing left to say?"

"Plenty. But it can wait." Giving in to his inner imp, Kinch decided to have a little fun. "I want to hear about your meeting."

Hogan suddenly seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in folding his sweater. His response was matter-of-fact.

"Nothing to it."

Kinch bit the inside of his lower lip until his grin was under control again. Putting just the right note of confusion in his voice, he said, "I don't understand. Marc said the information was important."

Hogan fussed with the sweater a moment longer, and then his shoulders slumped as he breathed a deep sigh. He turned, saw the smirk on Kinch's face and rolled his eyes heavenward.

"What gave me away?"

Kinch got up, sauntered across the room and fished O'Malley's tin of salve out of his locker. He lobbed the salve to Hogan, then motioned to his CO's back. "Better let me put this on those scratches, or they might get infected."

Hogan's gaze lifted from the tin to Kinch, and he burst out laughing.

**HH HH HH HH HH HH**

**One month later.**

"Robert . . . Where . . . are you . . . taking me?"

Hogan turned back, a wide grin upon his face. "You'll see."

Kurt plodded up the trail and stopped a few feet away. Sending his friend a look liberally laced with exasperation, he braced his hands upon his thighs and hung his head.

"You need to get in better shape." Hogan's voice held mild reproof.

Kurt's head flew up, scattering blond bangs over his forehead. "I am a _doctor_, not a mountain goat!" he shot back with as much force as his breathlessness allowed. Detecting barely a trace of sweat upon his friend's brow did not improve his mood.

Hogan offered his hand. The light from the full moon struck silver highlights off his hair and accented the devilment in his eyes.

"It's not much further, Herr Huff and Puff."

Straightening with as much dignity as he could muster, Kurt batted the hand away and gestured to the trail at Hogan's back. "Lead on, MacDumb."

Hogan tried hard to maintain a scowl. "That's 'MacDuff'."

"You say it your way," Kurt said, smiling ear to ear. "And I will say it mine."

They continued their trek up the steep trail, Hogan pointing out obstacles and places where the path got particularly treacherous. Kurt kept his ears open for warnings and concentrated on keeping his footing. Hiking was the last thing he had expected when Hogan had shown up at his parents' home and casually asked if he had plans for the evening. He had replied in the negative, thinking his friend had cards, chess, or fishing in mind. Certainly not a moonlight hike.

"Next time, ask questions," Kurt muttered to himself, yanking his head to one side to avoid a rock protruding from the side of the hill. His sour expression was quickly spoiled by a fond grin.

"This is it," Hogan called quietly over his shoulder. He stepped up onto a level patch of ground and turned to see if Kurt needed any help.

"Jah, jah," Kurt softly sighed, bending forward to miss getting whacked in the head by a low branch. Wiping a clump of sweaty hair from his forehead with the back of one arm, he climbed the last few feet to Hogan's side.

"What is it?" Kurt demanded, somewhat testily. He was hot, tired, sticky with sweat and a cramp had sunk painful claws into one calf.

Rather than answer, Hogan took him firmly by the shoulders and turned him to his right. Kurt's mouth fell open with an audible squeak and his eyes widened in wonder. He moved forward as if in a dream, drinking in the beauty of the silver and black landscape spread out below.

Hogan quickly snagged him by the arm. "Careful. Much further and I'll be scraping you off the rocks."

That got Kurt's attention. He looked down and blanched when he saw how close he had come to stepping off the ledge into oblivion. Hogan pulled on his arm, easing him backward.

"There's plenty of room to sit back here and the view's just as good."

They settled on the ledge beneath overhanging evergreen boughs, sitting so close their shoulders brushed when they moved.

Time went by while they sat without talking, soaking in the simple pleasures afforded by this secluded place. Kurt eventually realized that the tension that had been with him throughout the day had completely dissipated. The fight with Kumler, the grief and frustration of losing a patient that he had believed was recovering . . . For a short time, he had been free of it all. He shifted position and out of the corner of his eye, saw Hogan's head turn his way.

"You all right?" Hogan's mood had turned somber. Kurt found himself responding in kind.

"Very much so. It is truly beautiful here, Robert. Very relaxing. Thank you for bringing me."

"You're welcome."

"I can see why it appeals to you."

Hogan's lips twitched at the pun and he looked back out at the countryside. His voice was quiet; his words slow in coming. "I found it by accident about a year ago. It's a good place to think or relax and just forget about everything. I've been coming here a lot since Marta's death."

"It is very peaceful here," Kurt murmured, appreciating the pristine view yet again. "Everyone should have a place such as this."

Hogan softly cleared his throat. "That's why I decided it was selfish keeping it to myself."

Kurt cocked his head. "But in sharing it, you lose part of the very thing that draws you back here. The solitude."

"Yeah, well," Hogan sighed, flipping a bit of twig toward the edge of the ledge. "Solitude has its drawbacks."

Kurt's eyebrows flew upward. "I could not have heard you correctly."

Hogan chuckled. Resting his head against the rock behind them, he sighed softly, his eyes going half-lidded. Kurt looked up at the star-studded sky, sought and eventually found Orion's Belt. His gaze meandered over each twinkling jewel of light in the constellation, then moved on to the Big Dipper.

"Evangeline would have loved this place," he whispered, feeling a sudden wash of melancholy. "She loved nature and spent as much time outside as possible. Working in the flower and vegetable gardens. Reading. Walking. I used to tease her . . ." His breath caught momentarily, and he had to clear his throat before he could continue. His gaze lowered to the silver-limned treetops. "I used to tease her of having fairy blood running through her veins, and that our child would be born with little fairy ears."

Hogan leaned toward Kurt until their shoulders rested against each other. Kurt's mouth briefly curled upward.

"Kara could have had fairy ears and twelve fingers and toes and I still would have thought she was the most beautiful child on this earth."

Hogan smiled. "Even if she'd inherited your big feet?"

A watery chuckle surprised Kurt. He knuckled tears from his eyes. "Even then." Sighing, he looked skyward again, searching, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of Evangeline and Kara in the heavens. "Sometimes I try to imagine what our baby would have looked like. Her eyes would have been Evangeline's, her hair blond like mine, but with Evangeline's curls. She would have loved nature, and would have had . . ."

"Her father's stubbornness," Hogan interrupted. The slight curl to his lips vanished in the next moment. "His dedication and intelligence, his sense of fairness, and his loyalty to his friends."

Stunned by the rare, heartfelt declarations, Kurt struggled to find words. "There must be something in the air here," he murmured. "Both of us talking this way."

Hogan remained quiet a moment, then looked away and drew a deep breath. "Have you ever wondered . . ." he stopped, his expression showing some internal battle. "If you had known . . ." his jaw clenched and he gave a hard, abrupt shake of his head.

"Just say it, Robert," Kurt gently prodded, surprised to see his friend at a loss for words.

"Have you ever regretted marrying Evangeline?"

Kurt blinked, taken off-guard yet again. Slowly, he said, "Even if I had known of the terrible grief that lay ahead, I would not have hesitated to marry her. The days we had are --" he broke off, momentarily overcome again. Taking a deep breath, he plunged on. "Some of the most precious in my memory. Even if the future revealed that I would have only a day with her, it would not have made a difference. I would have grabbed that day." He turned his head, held Hogan's gaze fast. "Travel the road you are considering, Robert, and you will one day find yourself an old and very lonely man."

"Don't worry," Hogan said softly. "I've learned that lesson, too."

Kurt's lips twitched into a smirk. "No more trying to save us from worry for our own good?" His demeanor abruptly grew serious. "We choose our friends, Robert. And with those choices, take on all that goes along with them. The good and the bad." His head tilted, his voice turning quizzical. "Surely, after all we have been through together, you do not consider me and your men as good weather friends?"

A full-blown smile split Hogan's face. Suppressed laughter roughened his voice. "Nope." He gave Kurt a direct look. "Do you do that on purpose?"

The tilt to Kurt's head grew more pronounced. "Do what?"

"Mangle clichés." Hogan grinned. "Fair weather friend, primrose path, straw that broke the camel's back. That's what."

A devilish smile spread across Kurt's face. "Perhaps some day before I kick the pail, I will answer that. But for now, Mutter's the word."

Hogan groaned, buried his face in his hands and sorrowfully shook his head. Kurt reached over and slapped him on the back.

"Let's go, Robert. It is well past time for me to punch the bag."

Another groan issued from between Hogan's fingers. "No bones about it. I should have let sleeping dogs lie."

Kurt patted his back. Sympathy dripped from his voice. "The subject is a dead mule, Robert."

Hogan's head shot up. "Dead mule?" His brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"Stop whipping it," Kurt deadpanned.

Hogan did a near-perfect impersonation of the round-eyed look Schultz got when he realized he had fallen for something. "I've got my answer."

Kurt's devilish grin returned. "Have you?"

Hogan's spine straightened and his expression turned feral. He thrust a finger into Kurt's face. "Everyone thinks you're such a nice man. But I know better."

Kurt chuckled, but his amusement quickly ebbed from his expression. He searched his friend's face.

"Are you all right, Robert?"

A long moment passed and then Hogan's quiet voice broke the silence that had fallen over them.

"I'm getting there. The fact that I was responsible for killing Marta will always be with me, and living with it isn't easy. Some days are better than others. But . . ." he looked away, back toward the moonlit landscape. "The good ones are outnumbering the bad now. I'm doing what needs to be done, living instead of shutting myself in my quarters or going back home. Because either of those would be giving up and that would be no life at all. It'd be no different than if I put my gun in my mouth or walked off that ledge." He drew in a deep breath. "Taking each day as it comes." His gaze locked with Kurt's. "Just like you."

"Just like everyone," Kurt observed with a wry twist of his mouth.

"Yeah," Hogan agreed softly. "Just like everyone."

* * *

**_The End._**_ Thank you for reading! _


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